


Chasing A Ghost

by Enjoloras



Series: Chasing A Ghost [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, I'll add tags as I go along, It'll have a bittersweet ending I promise, M/M, Major Character Death (Past), Trans Enjolras, because lets be honest thats canon, set eight years after the June rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-04-17 14:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 105,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14191296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: Eight years have gone by since the failed student insurrection of 1832; eight years, and much has changed.Combeferre tries to pick up the pieces of a fractured life, unable to forget the friends he lost that day in June. When he and Courfeyrac hear rumours that Enjolras survived the barricades and fled Paris, Combeferre finds himself drawn to investigate.What he finds leaves him speechless and wondering; are some ghosts better left undisturbed?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much an AU of some of my AUs. Which is wild. This is happier than a lot of them, but there's still some angst.

The house was modest in size - a comfortable seat for an upper-middle class family or bourgeoisie merchant, but not grand or ostentatious in any way. It did not flaunt or boast, and in fact seemed to be in a state of some disrepair, built from old limestone that was starting to crack beneath swathes of crawling ivy. It looked as though it had once been a homage to neoclassicism, an arched portico overhanging the front door with pillars either side. It might have once been beautiful, but those days had long since passed and it's exterior had been handed over to the mercy of mother nature. 

Nothing of the house testified to Enjolras living there. 

Though he had been raised in the countryside Enjolras was a child of Paris to his very core. He was a misplaced son of the first Republic, a living epitaph of the revolution, born just a little too late for a fate that ought to have been his birthright. It was certain in some manner that Enjolras had been destined for the winding streets and bustling hum of Paris from the moment of his birth, fatefully placed there by some indelible force that knew his blood was meant to flow as Parisian as the Seine. 

No, this rundown estate on the edge of a quiet town half a day's coach ride from Paris was not somewhere that Combeferre imagined Enjolras would ever deign to call home. He scrunched up the piece of paper in his hand, stuffing it angrily into the breast pocket of his waistcoat.

He had been played for a fool. 

Still, he could not simply walk away; it was a long ride back to the city, and though certain of his mistake he could not dismiss the possibility entirely out of hand. Paris had not been a safe place for a would-be revolutionary following June of 1832; it was not _completely_ impossible that Enjolras might have fled to the countryside to evade arrest, but Combeferre did not think it very likely. Enough time had now passed that Enjolras would have surely returned to Paris if that were so. 

Just thinking of that June made the hairs on the back of Combeferre's neck stand on end. He recalled the chaos that had followed as vividly as if it were yesterday - casual acquaintances ignoring him in the streets, students with whom he had once held political debates burning books and letters that might even marginally incriminate them. That June had heralded a frantic purge of revolutionary ideals; men who had been ready to die for their cause suddenly distanced themselves from it, and cafes and bistros that had once welcomed students hurried to close their doors and shutter their windows. Combeferre did not blame them, much as he would have liked to; the title of 'revolutionary' was always very different once the dust had settled and the gunfire had stopped. On the barricades such a thing had been a badge of honour, but the battle lost the word was taboo once more. 

It had been months after the fall of the barricades before Combeferre had been able to start making inquiries about his friends, finding when he did that most of them had perished as he'd feared.

Courfeyrac had survived, by some blessing, and he and Combeferre were reunited six months later. 

He had been taken prisoner, left to rot in a damp cell with only the rats for company and doomed for the guillotine, her blade that coldest of kisses upon the neck, like a lover scorned. It had seemed certain, and Combeferre had written to appeal, but at the last moment Courfeyrac had been redeemed - the miracle of mercy coming to him in the form of the despised 'De' that sat before his family name.

His parents had paid a small fortune to have what they were referring to as his 'brief indiscretion' forgotten about. They had put his revolutionary fervour down to the folly of youth - a reckless choice made in the heat of the moment - and Courfeyrac had been released to them on the condition that they keep him restrained in future. Any further 'indiscretions' would grant him a private audience with a firing squad. 

He had curled his lip in disgust when relaying to Combeferre how he had escaped his fate; 'I would rather have died with some dignity,' he'd said, 'Now I am exactly what Enjolras feared we might become – a wealthy boy who did not see any consequences for his actions, and only for the money in my father's pockets. Feuilly was not so privileged as to be spared. Laigle was not. They were poor, and so they are dead. I am a disgrace to our ideals.'

'You are no such thing. Survival is not a failing,' Combeferre had insisted, but Courfeyrac had not seemed to hear him. 

This attitude towards his pardon had been a harrowing portent of things to come, Combeferre now knew. It had become evident within weeks that Courfeyrac had been left a different man by his experience. He returned to Combeferre colder, humourless, with an emptiness behind the eyes that had once shone with warmth. He would take a drop of laudanum with every meal, before bed of an evening, and when he rose again in the afternoon. He would take it whenever he was unhappy, and so took it often, and Combeferre could do little but watch. 

This habit was not the only thing Courfeyrac had picked up from that June, however; the barricade had thought to leave him with a memento, his left cheek marred by the same blast of grapeshot that had killed Joly and Laigle. It was not a pretty sight - even Combeferre could not lie as to say otherwise - and Courfeyrac knew it. Whenever he happened to pass a mirror he would grimace at his reflection and turn away. He ceased to take pride in his appearance, declaring that there was no use in it; 'I could dress myself as finely as the king if I wished, but it would still not do to undo the ugliness of my face.' he would say. He did not shave, oft did not dress himself beyond a shirt and trousers, and before long none of his mistresses cared to visit him. Combeferre did not know if it was the change in his appearance or his newly embittered personality that had frightened them away - privately he imagined it was a little of both. 

'You are still dashing,' He had tried to reassure him one evening when Courfeyrac had caught a glimpse of his reflection in the silver of his soup spoon. 

'I care not one bit about how it offends the fair mademoiselles,' He had snapped in response, slamming the spoon down violently enough to shake the table and spill his wine, 'I care only that it reminds me daily of that June. I care that people see me upon the streets and recognise the work of grapeshot and say to themselves 'there is one of those foolish schoolboys! Why could he not have been so kind as to die?'.'

Combeferre had not dared mention it again after that.

Though being reunited with Courfeyrac had not been all that Combeferre had hoped, it had been a pleasant reprieve from his grief all the same. Soon, however, this reprieve had served only to emphasise a troubling fact; they had heard nothing of Enjolras and what had become of him. This knowledge - or lack thereof - was a thing that went unnamed for months. It felt as though a great gulf had opened up between them - an emptiness where their dearest friend should have been. 

With Enjolras gone, what were they? They had been three through it all, now so viciously reduced to two.

To lose Enjolras was as though to lose a limb.

'Perhaps he was also taken prisoner?' Courfeyrac supplied one night, when they finally grew brave enough to give their thoughts a voice, 'I was not permitted to leave my cell, and so I would not have seen him if he were there.'

'Perhaps', Combeferre had said, though in his heart he wished Enjolras dead before captured.

If he had been taken prisoner then the curious matter of his birth would have no doubt been exposed, and Combeferre did not like to linger too long on what that might mean. Soldiers could be brutes at the best of times, and he did not imagine they would display any excess of chivalry towards someone who had killed one of their compatriots - even if they thought him a woman. _Especially_ if they thought him a woman.

Enjolras had a fighting spirit, no one could deny, but he could not defend himself against the entire National Guard. He would be fair game, and Combeferre imagined many of their superiors would look the other way to any cruelty they subjected him to. 

These imagined horrors had only made Combeferre even more determined to learn of his fate. Whatever had happened to him, whatever brutalities had been enacted upon him, he would uncover them and seek out some small measure of justice. He spread word around Paris that he would pay for information, desperate to learn what he could, and set about his task. Combeferre may not have had a carbine to hand anymore, no, but he still had in his possession a great fortune, a good name, and a fine education; if Enjolras was alive then he would find him, and then employ every trick in his arsenal to see him returned to them. 

He soon got his wish - though it had come as a brutal blow when he did.

A note had found it's way into a textbook of his, falling out as he had left a lecture; _'In regards to M. Enjolras; meet me at Père Lachaise at noon, beside the funerary chapel; bring three-hundred francs. Come alone; I will know if you do not.'_

Combeferre had gone, meeting the mysterious man and paying in full only to be told that Enjolras had been one of the last students cornered in the Corinthe when the barricade was stormed.

They had fought to the last man, it was said.

 _Dead then_ , Combeferre had realised. It felt like being dropped into icy water from a great height. 

 _Dead_.

He had cried himself to sleep that night - and for several nights thereafter.

The pain of the loss did not even feel like grief - at least not in the way Combeferre had imagined grief to feel. It was not so much an emotion as it was a visceral, physical sort of pain, as though a piece of shrapnel from the barricade had lodged itself deep within his chest, close to his heart. There was no way to extract it, and if there had been he felt he might bleed to death in the process. It was a festering wound that for all his skill as a doctor he could not heal.

They did not even have a grave to visit - no sacred place at which to say their farewells, no tomb to adorn with flowers and trinkets of affection. Nothing. Some newly superstitious part of Combeferre had feared for Enjolras' soul to think of this. He turned restlessly in his bed some nights, imagining his spirit wandering the streets of Paris between the shadowy veil of life and death. That thought was almost harder to endure than the thought that he was dead. 

Dead was painful - but lost, too?

In a way, lost was worse.

Eight years had passed since then. Eight years of suffering, eight years of learning how to live again after all that had happened, and somehow they had pushed onwards. Combeferre had completed his studies and become a doctor, and shortly thereafter he and Courfeyrac had taken up lodgings together, drawing tentative comfort from each other's presence and reminiscing over a glass of port from time to time. He opened a practice of his own just off Rue Saint-Antoine, and regularly waived patient fees where he could. 

As the years came and went so to did rumours - rumours that Enjolras was alive and living with his mother, rumours that he was living under a pseudonym in Paris, rumours that he had been imprisoned for treason, rumours that he had been sent to the scaffold years prior.

All of these rumours Combeferre had paid their bearers for, and all of them he had later confirmed to be nought but hearsay, cons, and wishful thinking. 

In those early years Courfeyrac had accompanied him on these ventures, but time had dragged on and on and Combeferre had watched the spirit drain out of him with every outlandish story and disappointing end.

'I do not have the stamina to keep chasing a ghost,' he had said one night, tired eyes cast downward as he poured himself a dram of gin, 'Enjolras is dead; let his poor soul rest if it can. Please, Combeferre - let it be.'

Combeferre had known he was right. Enjolras was gone, his bones turning to dust in an unmarked grave, and Combeferre could not bring him back - not for wanting, not for trying, and not if he entertained all the rumours in France. 

But it was not so easy as that to give up; hope still burned in his chest like the last embers of a fire, refusing to be smothered despite the evidence he was faced with. Whenever someone approached him with whispers of Enjolras' whereabouts Combeferre would find himself digging into his purse for whatever price they demanded. He could not abide the thought that he might turn someone away as a charlatan only for them to be speaking the truth; he would rather be made a fool of over and over than risk that. And he had been - again and again, until people snickered at him in the streets and called him _'Le Docteur Fou'._

And so here he was, having travelled to an address he had never heard of in a village too small to be worth mentioning by name. someone by the name Enjolras supposedly resided here, in this house that looked as though it had seen better days. 

The information had cost him no less than two-hundred francs, coming to him via a postal worker who had seen the name on a letter that had been mistakenly diverted from Limoges.

 _Limoges_ \- it was that detail that had breathed the spark of hope in Combeferre's chest back to life. Enjolras had been born in Limoges, after all. It was a matter he had always been most private about, for being reckless with such personal information had carried great risk for him. It was not, then, something someone could have fabricated to swindle Combeferre out of his purse.

It had to have been real, he'd thought. 

But now, staring at the house, that flame in Combeferre's chest began to flicker out like a candle at the end of it's wick; if Enjolras had truly survived the barricades he would not have exiled himself to sleepy village life for the past eight years. It was ludicrous. He would have thrown himself back into his politics as soon as the smoke had cleared, regardless of the consequences. 

Combeferre had been conned once more - though, he conceded, far more artfully than usual.

But still, was here now, and it would not cost another sou to confirm his disappointment. 

He removed his top hat, clutching it to his chest with a sigh, and made his way up the steps to knock on the door. 

A long while passed before it was answered, a young woman with coal dark hair peering out at him through the crack in the door. 

“Can I help you, monsieur?” she said. 

“I doubt so, Mademoiselle,” Combeferre said apologetically, “I fear I may have been given the incorrect address. I am looking for an old friend of mine,” he explained, “A Monsieur Enjolras?"

“This is his residence,” The woman said, eyeing him suspiciously, “I am the maid here. You are an old friend, you say?”

Combeferre gripped the rim of his hat tightly; it would do him no good to be excited over something as inconsequential as a shared name, he reminded himself - Enjolras was a family name, and he was certain that he must have had cousins and other distant relations bearing the same surname. 

“Yes,” Combeferre said, “From Paris.”

The maid narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.

“We shall see about that," she decided, "Give me one moment, Monsieur. Wait here," she added, with a great deal of authority, "Do not move." 

"I will remain exactly where I am," Combeferre promised. The maid sniffed slightly, retreating from the door and disappearing down the hallway. 

“Monsieur!” she cried, addressing someone he could not see, “There is a gentleman come here from Paris who says that he is an old acquaintance of yours!”

Combeferre scarcely had chance to take offence at being demoted to 'acquaintance' before he heard a familiar voice reply;

“Did you not think to get his name, Marceline?”

His heart stopped. 

“I think we are long past that formality, are we not?” He shouted into the house.

There was a moment of silence, the sound of footsteps on the floor, and then the door swung open to reveal a stunned, pale-faced Enjolras standing in the doorway.

It was like seeing a ghost. 

He was exactly as Combeferre remembered him - severe and beautiful, with only a few shadows under his eyes to attest to the years that had passed. He wore a rich blue waistcoat and his long hair tied neatly back out of his face, and he still could not properly tie a cravat.

“Combeferre?” he said, voice shaking. 

“Enjolras," Combeferre smiled, heart feeling as though it might burst.

Enjolras looked him up and down as though expecting him to disappear like smoke; a phantom, come to haunt him, that might blow away with the breeze.

"You are _alive?_ " he said at last. 

“I am. As are you, it transpires,” Combeferre said, “It has been far too long, my friend.”

Enjolras reached out to touch his arm as if some part of him did not trust his own eyes. 

"I am not a vapour," Combeferre offered gently, laying his hand softly on Enjolras' and feeling him startle at the contact, "I will not vanish."

“It feels as though you might. I had thought you dead for certain,” Enjolras whispered. His eyes were full of emotion. 

“Very nearly,” Combeferre said, “A bayonet did it's worst on me, but I was fortunate; three blows, and each missed my organs. It was a remarkable stroke of luck." 

Enjolras shook his head slowly, “Eight years, Combeferre. _Eight_. I...I was so sure that you did not make it...”

“I believed the same of you."

"How did you escape?"

"I did not. When the National Guard was finished with the rest of you they took me to a hospital in shackles – shackles, can you believe?" Combeferre said with a bitter laugh, "As though they thought a dying man might put up a worthy fight..."

Enjolras' gaze dropped to his feet, “Those of us in the Corinthe gave them plenty of cause to believe that,” he said, “Believe me - we showed them good and true that a wounded animal is the most dangerous kind.”

Combeferre felt a lump form in his stomach. He wanted to say something, anything that might offer him some comfort, but the words failed him. He could never truly know what horrors Enjolras had witnessed in that room; even the imagination could not truly conjure such brutality. 

“How is it that you were you not executed or imprisoned?” Enjolras demanded, changing the subject. 

“My family intervened.” Combeferre explained, “Those of us with more affluent names were fortunate enough to buy back our freedom. It is a sad irony, in truth, that the privilege we fought against so vehemently was our salvation. I would have liked to have been so true to my principals as to refuse their help, but I confess that a bayonet in your stomach will change your resolve rather quickly.”

“I imagine so. There is no shame in that.”

Combeferre smiled weakly, “Courfeyrac lives, too.”

“He does?” Enjolras looked up from the floor, tears now shining in his eyes, “I thought I was alone, save for...” he shook his head, “If I had known I would not have left you as I did. Forgive me, my dear friend - I am so sorry...”

“Do not be - you did not know. How could you? And it does not matter now, at any rate - you are alive, and I am alive, and we are together again now,” Combeferre pointed out, “That is all that is of any consequence. Oh Enjolras - is so good to see you..."

Enjolras wiped his eyes, and then he was pulling Combeferre to him, embracing him so tightly he forced all the air out of his lungs. Combeferre let out a shaky sigh, holding him close, burying his nose in his hair. He had dreamed of his moment for years - dreamed, hoped, begged and suffered for. And now it was here - _Enjolras_ was here, real and warm and _alive_ , so beautifully, painfully alive...

“I have missed you terribly,” Enjolras said, voice muffled against his chest, "How ever did you find me out here? I had thought I left all traces of my whereabouts behind me."

"A letter from Limoges was redirected to Paris by mistake - a simple error, for which I am now infinitely grateful."

Enjolras stiffened, "A letter? What did you---"

"I have it with me, do not trouble yourself," Combeferre said, reluctantly releasing him, "Nobody else knows where to find you."

Enjolras let out a breath of relief; "Good," he said, before seeming to remember himself suddenly, “What am I doing---come inside, please,” he urged, stepping to one side, “I should not leave you outside on the doorstep as though we are strangers to each other! You are my brother, after all! Come in; my home is yours, always. Please forgive Marceline her suspicions - she has been instructed to be wary of visitors.”

Combeferre nodded, removing his coat, “It is understandable. I confess, I cannot quite believe that this is your home – I very nearly turned around and took my leave when I first got a look at it. It seems too ordinary for your liking. Too peaceful."

“Peace was what I needed after 1832,” Enjolras said, taking Combeferre's coat and hat from him and hanging them on the hook by the door, “And it was not safe to go back to Paris at any rate. We thought that settling here would be a good precaution. It is not so boring, really.”

“We?”

A strange look came over Enjolras at once; a change so immediate and noticeable that Combeferre feared he had caused offence in some way. He spun to face him, eyes flashing with alarm and his complexion worryingly pale, “You must listen to me, Combeferre,” he started, placing one hand on his chest as though to stop him venturing further into the house, “A great deal has changed since last we saw one another."

“Naturally," Combeferre said, "It has been eight years; I did not expect to find your life the same as it was before---”

“No, you do not quite comprehend what I mean,” Enjolras said, “Far more has changed than you would perhaps be prepared for.”

“I do not understand...?”

“It is a complicated matter, believe me. An issue of some delicacy. I had to forge a life for myself, Combeferre," he said, "I could not live in mourning, I had to try to move on. Please do not think any differently of me for it..."

Combeferre frowned, concerned, “Enjolras...?”

At that very moment a small figure appeared in the doorway of the adjacent room, catching his attention; it was a young boy, surely no older than nine, with thick ink black curls and sharp features that looked almost jarringly out of place on a child.

“Papa, who is that?” the boy asked.

Papa?

Combeferre looked to Enjolras, realising from the child's line of vision that it was him he was addressing.

_Papa?_

As though reading his mind Enjolras knelt down, pulling the boy close to him.

“Camille, this is your uncle Combeferre,” he began, “He is my dear brother. I have not seen him since before you were born.”

“Oh.”

The boy regarded Combeferre with that judgemental curiosity all children afforded strange adults, his eyes narrowed keenly. 

“Combeferre, this is Camille,” Enjolras continued, flashing him a warning look, “My son.”

His son.

His _son?_

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Combeferre said, somehow managing to recover the power of speech. He offered his hand in greeting, but the boy did not take it. There was something about his features that was achingly familiar. He looked nothing at all like Enjolras aside from the blue of his eyes, and yet Combeferre found himself feeling as though he had looked upon his face before.

"Camille," Enjolras muttered, "Please be polite..."

Camille continued to glare even as he took Combeferre's hand and shook it. He did not look best pleased to meet him.

"You have a firm handshake," Combeferre complimented awkwardly, "Very much like your father."

Camille said nothing, causing Enjolras to clear his throat uncomfortably, “Camille, would you go and find Marceline? Tell her to bring François to me."

“Yes papa..." the boy said, shooting one last suspicious look at Combeferre as he went, leaving the two of them to be swallowed up by a tense silence in his wake. 

Finally, Combeferre cleared his throat, “You have a son...”

“Yes.”

"You carried him?"

"To my best recollection, yes."

"Was that not horrid for you?"

"Rather. I imagine it horrid for anyone," Enjolras said simply, still staring down the hall after the boy, "I would not recommend the trial of childbirth highly to anyone." 

Combeferre frowned, "How old is he?” he asked. 

“He turned seven recently,"

“Then he was born less than a year after the barricades fell,” Combeferre guessed.

Enjolras' lack of response set something uneasy clawing at his insides.

He thought back to what Courfeyrac had said about him being taken prisoner, imagining Enjolras alone in the Corinthe, surrounded by the National Guard. 

“After the barricade was stormed...” he ventured carefully, feeling sick, “I know what soldiers can be like. They can be brutes, when their blood is up. Enjolras...your son...”

“What?”

“He is not the result of their savagery, is he?”

Enjolras shook his head, “No,” he said, “No, Combeferre, do not worry yourself; it was not like that. Camille's birthday is in May.”

“Then how...?”

“How do you think?” Enjolras pursed his lips, “He was conceived the same summer."

“By whom?”

“By me.”

“You know what I mean,” Combeferre pressed, but before the matter could be resolved they were interrupted by the maid returning with another child in tow. He looked to be no older than three, slight and small, with soft brown curls, large hazel eyes and an unmistakable resemblance to Enjolras in his face. 

“And this is...?”

“My _other_ son,” Enjolras said indignantly, “François.”

“You have _two_ children?” Combeferre could not hide the incredulous tone of his voice. 

“For now,” Enjolras stated, lifting his chin, “I have another on the way, though I am not yet showing.”

That he had a family at all was shocking enough, but that he talked so brazenly of his pregnancy in front of Marceline left Combeferre speechless. He looked to her to gauge her reaction, finding her utterly unmoved by his words. 

“Marceline knows of my unusual predicament,” Enjolras informed him, as though he had guessed his thoughts, “She was trained as a midwife, and so we employ her for many purposes. She delivered both of my sons discreetly and will deliver this one as well.”

“Three children...” Combeferre said, his head reeling with questions. He removed his spectacles, busying himself with cleaning the lenses for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.

“And do they all have the same...I mean...” he was unsure how to continue. What was the etiquette here?

“Do they what?” Enjolras said. 

“Are they all sired by the same man, or...?”

Enjolras' eyes flashed, “Yes,” he said, voice rising slightly. 

“I am sorry, I did not mean to insinuate---”

“Insinuate _what_ , exactly?” Enjolras dared him.

“I just meant...”

“I am _married,_ Combeferre.”

“Oh.” Combeferre swallowed hard, “That is...” _Good? Bad? Pleasant?_ “Honourable.”

“ _Honourable?_ ” Enjolras laughed, “I know that you are confused, Combeferre, and I do not blame you. But things happened following June that were beyond my control.”

“Evidently..."

“I did tell you that you would be surprised,” Enjolras reminded him, raising one eyebrow, “Come, there is no need to linger in the hallway; I ought to receive you properly,” he said. 

The drawing room was modestly decorated, with a long bookshelf running along one wall, two fine burgundy sofas framing the fireplace, and open doors leading out onto a poorly maintained garden. A fine summer breeze was blowing gently into the room, making the sheer linen curtains dance, and scattered all about were toys and other artefacts that attested to the hustle and bustle of family life.

"Your husband..." Combeferre said, casting Enjolras a sidelong glance, "I am assuming from your attire that he knows of your situation?"

"Of course. I am no wife. I would not have wed any man who would have seen me thus."

"That is good," Combeferre murmured, "What is his name?"

“There will be no need for introductions,” Enjolras said dismissively, "You are already acquainted with his person."

“I know him?”

Enjolras nodded, “We were not the only ones to escape the barricade, Combeferre."

He turned his attention back to Camille, who had come into the room and settled on one of the sofas to read.

“Camille, would you please tell your father I require him in the drawing room?" he asked. 

"But papa---"

"Camille,"

The boy gave a petulant pout, grudgingly abandoning his book and storming off to do as he was told. Combeferre watched him go, unable to help how fondly he smiled.

“He seems as stubborn as you,” he commented.

Enjolras smirked at the observation, “You would not believe the half of it,” he said, sitting down. 

“He terrorises poor Marceline with his antics. I try to be strict with him, but it is an uphill battle."

“I thought you did not like children?”

“I was never particularly fond of them.” Enjolras agreed mildly, “And there is a distinct lack of maternal stirrings in my heart, if such a thing would exist in one like myself. But they are mine, and so I love them." 

Combeferre hummed with amusement, making his way over to the bookshelf to inspect Enjolras' collection.

“They were not planned though, I assume?” he asked.

“No,” Enjolras confessed, “But I do not love them any less for that."

“That is good...” Combeferre said, scanning the bookshelf, “Rousseau,” he remarked, gesturing to the books.

Enjolras barely acknowledged him. 

“Yes,” he said, expression stony, "Rousseau."

His reaction – or lack thereof - made Combeferre's blood run cold. That was not right - once Enjolras would have lit up at the opportunity to discuss his politics, but now he responded as though to have such books in his house was something of which he ought to be ashamed.

He was about to ask him about it when Camille came running back into the room, a familiar figure following at his heel.

Combeferre froze. 

“Is everything alright?” Grantaire asked, his eyes fixed on a letter he was reading, “Camille insisted I was needed here most urgently. One would think the house had caught fire and I had failed to notice...” he trailed off as he looked up, noticing Combeferre suddenly.

His eyes widened ever so slightly, but besides this he gave no other indication that he was in any way surprised.

“Combeferre.” he said - a statement, not a question.

Combeferre felt the bile rise in the his throat.

“Grantaire.” he said, giving a curt nod.

Grantaire folded the letter up calmly, slipping it into the pocket of his waistcoat, “We assumed you were dead...”

“I am not.” Combeferre said flatly.

“Clearly, else you look to be in extraordinarily good health for a corpse.”

Combeferre felt his jaw clench. He watched as Camille retrieved his book from the table and disappeared into the garden to continue his reading, clearly disinterested in the conversational habits of adults.

 _Good_ , Combeferre thought - he would not have liked the child to witness what was coming.

He glanced at Enjolras, sitting with one hand resting on his stomach - where that _drunkard's_  offspring was growing - and felt suddenly like he might vomit. He imagined his state of mind following the fall of the barricade, broken, grieving, _vulnerable_...

Grantaire had always watched Enjolras in a way that Combeferre did not care for; part desire, part worship, and far, _far_ too familiar for his liking.

He could see it now; Enjolras, alone and in need of comfort, Grantaire, only too happy to provide it. And once he knew of Enjolras' secret? Once he'd had his way and put a child in him?

What option would Enjolras have had but to marry him? What option would he have had, but to move away from his beloved Paris and raise that wretch's progeny?

Combeferre's blood boiled.

It happened in a blur; he moved unconsciously, without thought. As Grantaire stepped closer to greet him he curled one hand into a fist and swung it to his face; he heard a loud crack, felt a jolt of pain in his wrist, and then Grantaire staggered back with a howl and a string of curses.

“Combeferre!”

Immediately Enjolras was between them, his eyes blazing; briefly it felt like being back on the barricades, only now it was Enjolras acting the part of barrier.

“How _dare_ you?!” he said, furious, “What on earth has come over you?!”

Combeferre stepped back, red-faced and his knuckles stinging. 

“He took advantage of you!” he accused, as Enjolras turned to his husband – his _husband_ – and pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket to hand to him.

“Oh, really?” Enjolras said, glaring daggers at him over his shoulder, “Were you there?”

“I...no, but---”

“Then what do you know of any of it?”

“It is obvious! I saw the way he used to look at you during our meetings, the miserable dog!”

Enjolras bristled, “Hold your tongue before you make even more of a fool of yourself,” he warned.

“You may be blind to it, Enjolras, but I am not! That brute---”

“Do you forget yourself?” Enjolras snapped, cutting him short.

“I---”

“You have been in my home less than ten minutes and already you have subtly accused me of loose morals, implied that my children are illegitimate and physically assaulted my husband. Brother or not that is hardly commendable behaviour, so do not dare attempt to take the moral high-ground with me!”

Combeferre could not argue with that. This was hardly proving to be the warm, heartfelt reunion he had envisioned whenever he had fantasied about finding Enjolras alive.

He grimaced, “I am sorry...”

“As you should be. Sit down you sorry fool, before you do any more damage!” Enjolras said, turning his attention back to Grantaire and guiding him over to the sofa.

"Sit here," he said, unexpectedly tender as he dabbed the blood away from his nose, gentle in a way that Combeferre had always smugly assumed was reserved only for himself and Courfeyrac.

 _His care for him is genuine_ , he realised, stomach sinking with dread.

Suddenly he was far less confident in his convictions – suddenly, Combeferre was worried that he had in fact made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Grantaire took the handkerchief from Enjolras, holding it to his nose to staunch the bleeding. He looked at Combeferre and then suddenly grinned, blood on his lips and teeth that made it look almost like a snarl.

“For a man of medicine you have an impressive swing,” he said, “You are full of surprises!”

Combeferre scowled, unsure if he was being made fun of.

Enjolras sighed, looking from Grantaire to Combeferre.

“Combeferre, I ought to explain," he said, "I fear you may have a misguided view of my relationship. When the barricades fell Grantaire helped me to escape. He did not overstep any boundaries. _I_ made the move towards intimacy, not him. There was nothing untoward about his intentions or his actions - he only meant to help me."

“I have met others in Enjolras' unusual situation before. I am a man of Paris, after all.” Grantaire put in, removing the handkerchief now that the blood had stopped flowing, "It came as no surprise to me." 

Combeferre looked to Enjolras, “I do not understand. How did you both get away from the barricades unscathed?”

“A few of the National Guard owed me a great deal of money from a game of dominoes,” Grantaire said, looking at the soiled handkerchief almost curiously, “It is easy to forget that soldiers are people – people, and often bad gamblers."

“He chose to call in their debt in the form of sparing my life.” Enjolras explained, “They agreed and allowed Grantaire and I a brief window of time in which to escape...”

“Allowed,” Grantaire snorted, wincing in pain as he did, “I had to forcibly drag you! You were utterly insistent upon dying a martyr. It was admirable, I will give you that, but I knew it was not what your friends would have wanted for you when you had the chance at a life.”

Enjolras looked down at his lap, reaching to take Grantaire's hand. The gesture was subtle, but Combeferre saw it clearly enough, and guilt suddenly came crashing down over him.

He owed Grantaire a great debt. He had saved Enjolras' life, and Combeferre had thanked him for it with a closed fist.

"We rented rooms together under the guise of husband and wife and lay low in the wake of it all. It was the only time I was relatively thankful for my anatomy," Enjolras continued, "The National Guard had my description from witnesses, but they were not looking for a woman. I became 'Madame Grantaire' long before we were actually married."

“And this?” Combeferre asked, gesturing meaningfully to the two of them, “How did this happen...?”

“We had lost everyone," Grantaire said, looking down at their hands, “It was not only you that lost your friends, Combeferre.”

“It was not planned, this,” Enjolras said, “But familiarity breeds closeness, I suppose. We were united in grief; it felt as though it had come to be the two of us against all of Paris.” he shrugged, “Before long I was with child and we knew we would be forced to leave the city. It was already a risk to remain there, but an infant would only further complicate matters - so we came out here and were married. We have been here ever since." 

“Forgive me,” Combeferre whispered, “I should have heard the whole story before I behaved as I did. It was brutish of me."

“The Combeferre I recall was usually the one to temper _me_ in matters of great emotion,” Enjolras said, brow creasing, “What ever happened to him?”

“He suffered at the barricades.” Combeferre answered honestly, “The brutality of it changed us all, Enjolras. Courfeyrac so rarely laughs these days.”

Enjolras winced, “I do not care to imagine that.” he admitted.

Combeferre turned to Grantaire, awkwardly extending his hand, “Please, forgive me."

“Ah, a truce?” Grantaire grinned, shaking it without hesitation, “You are quite forgiven. I would have attacked me too, thinking what you did! I am a scoundrel, but not a beast. There was no unwelcome ravishing on my part, I assure you."

"I see that now..."

"Good. And I must confess to being impressed by your aim!”

“It was indecent of me,” Combeferre insisted.

“Your aim?”

“My actions.”

“Well you are only fortunate that I am out of practice,” Grantaire joked, “I have no boxing partner to spar with out here and fatherhood has left me tired and lazy. You know Enjolras' nature; raising two boys of his is no easy feat!"

“I imagine not...” Combeferre said, glancing out of the window at Camille. It was obvious now what had been so eerily familiar about the boy; he was the very image of Grantaire. From his dark curls to the shape of his brow the resemblance was unmistakable. He had Enjolras' blue eyes, yes, but besides this he could have been a near perfect copy of the man sat beside him.

Enjolras smirked to himself, following his gaze, "It is uncanny, isn't it?" he said, as though reading his mind. 

"In a word," Combeferre agreed.

"Grantaire is hoping the next one resembles me."

"Is that so?"

“I only mean it would be pleasant to have another fair head of hair in the house,” Grantaire laughed, “We do rather outnumber you at present!"

Enjolras smiled, getting to his feet, “Will you stay for dinner?” he asked Combeferre.

“Of course – that is, if you will have me still, following my transgression...”

“I haven't seen you in eight years,” Enjolras said, his expression softening, “I would not turn you out so quickly after that.”

“I did attack your husband,” Combeferre reminded him, as though he thought he might have forgotten.

“I confess I have been sorely tempted to attack him myself on occasion,” Enjolras said, shooting Grantaire a fond look, “We do not send people away for something as trivial as that."

Combeferre chuckled, “Very well. Do you have a pen and paper? I should write to Courfeyrac to inform him of the good news.”

“Of course,” Enjolras nodded, “I will show you to the study."

 

-

 

The study was as humble as the rest of the house, overlooking the garden. An old bureau sat by the window, a worn leather chair in front of it, and crowded bookshelves lined every other wall of the room, their contents looking long bereft of love.

“You haven't touched these in a while...” Combeferre observed, running one finger down the spine of a book and frowning at line he made in the dust.

“I haven't.” Enjolras confirmed, not looking at him as he retrieved some paper from the drawer of the desk.

“Why not?”

“Why do you think?”

Combeferre felt his heart sink, “Do not tell me you have lost faith that things can change...?” he said, dread settling into his stomach when Enjolras did not respond.

“Surely not you, Enjolras...?”

"Why does it surprise you so?" He said, "Things cannot change now any more than they could in 1832. We tried. And we failed."

"Enjolras..."

Enjolras turned to face him, his eyes like two chips of ice, “Do not try to tell me any differently, Combeferre, I pray. You were there; you saw the fear and the blood and the horror – do not ask me to go through it again, even to recount it."

Combeferre could not believe what he was hearing - such words out of Enjolras' mouth felt like blasphemy. It was a like a god denying his own existence, for Enjolras was the very spirit of revolution. At least, the Enjolras that he remembered was.

“Is this Grantaire's doing?” he accused, “Has his scepticism infected even you?”

“It is nothing to do with Grantaire,” Enjolras snapped, “Will you blame him for everything about me you no longer find agreeable? Eight years have passed, or have you forgotten?”

“I have not forgotten - of course I have not forgotten. I grieved for you, Enjolras. I mourned you."

"I am sorry you did so in vain."

"That is not what I mean," Combeferre said, "I am pleased to find you alive - more than pleased. It feels as though my heart has finally begun to beat again! But this is unlike you, Enjolras...”

"Do not try to tell me what is and is not like me," Enjolras muttered, "I am a different man now."

"But Eniolras---"

“We were alone, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, looking out of the window as though he was seeing it all before him once more, “The people abandoned us. They let those boys die, alone and frightened. You may have fallen before the Corinthe was taken but I saw it all; I was in that room for the final slaughter. I saw the panic and the desperation. I saw boys crying for their mothers, begging for mercy. There was nothing noble in that room. Idealism was murdered there. I saw it all, and it has taken the heart of me.”

“It is not all like that, though! Many were moved by the events of 1832. The people still want change, Enjolras...”

“Well they shall have to remain wanting,” Enjolras said coldly, “Or else go about it themselves, because I have spent enough blood in their thankless service to last a lifetime. I have put my flintlock down, and I do not intend to take it up again,” he deflated slightly, shoulders sagging as though a great weight had just been placed upon them, “I have a family now, Combeferre...”

“I understand that - truly, I do. I would never ask you to go to the barricades again. But you can still do some good – lend your voice to politics once more, Enjolras, with your writings and your speeches. You have a talent for it that we would be hard pressed to find elsewhere.”

“If I breathe a word of revolution I as good as walk myself to the scaffold. Forgive me if in the last eight years I have grown somewhat accustomed to having my head.”

Combeferre shook his head, “What has happened to you? This version of you is a stranger to me. You once told me you did not care for family, that you had no desire for marriage or children, that you were made for a greater purpose - you have become a mockery of that man!"

“I was humbled from thoughts of martyrdom when I saw my friends butchered by the National Guard,” Enjolras countered, “And though children were not in my plans now that I have them I doubtless have a duty to them. Would you have me just abandon them?”

Combeferre laughed bitterly at that; “Eight years ago you would not have hesitated to imitate Rousseau on that front.”

“Well it is too late for that now. I am responsible for their welfare. I am, in my own way, doing my part towards a better future, Combeferre – I am raising fine citizens of France.”

“And that is an admirable endeavour, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, laying one hand on his shoulder, “But it is not _you,_ and I feel in my heart that you know that as well as I do. The man I knew would have hated the life you are now living. The man I knew would have died ten times over for the sake of his cause.”

“That man _did_ die for his cause, in 1832.” Enjolras said shortly, jerking his shoulder away, “I may have the same face and name as him, but I am much changed.”

“Clearly.” Combeferre said, drawing his hand back.

Enjolras fixed him with a steely look, “Are you disappointed, my friend?” he said, “Do you rather wish I were dead after all?”

Combeferre did not dare voice it, but for a fleeting moment a small, shameful part of him did.

This man was not the Enjolras he remembered - he did not resemble him in any way but his appearance. When he had thought Enjolras dead he had continued to exist in Combeferre's mind, preserved forever as the dauntless revolutionary, youthful and admirable and resplendent in his idealism.

In death he was a martyr, as perfect as martyrs came. Untouchable. But as he was now, changed, coping with the guilt and the grief and the pain...

He swallowed the sharp lump in his throat.

“Will you not at least consider it?” he said, in lieu of an honest answer.

Enjolras scoffed, “Consider what, exactly? What do you want of me?”

“Accompany me back to Paris."

“That is not possible even if I wished it. I am with child, I told you so already.”

Combeferre waved it off, “A minor inconvenience - wait until you have delivered the child and _then_ accompany me back to Paris. I can surely afford to wait a few months. How long before the babe is due?"

Enjolras raised his eyebrows, “You truly expect me to just leave my family? To leave _Grantaire?_ ”

“I am sure that he can cope without you for a while.”

“And how long is 'a while', in your mind?"

“As long as it takes.”

Enjolras let out a mirthless laugh, “So you wish for me to abandon my husband and children - including a newborn - to convene with you and Courfeyrac in Paris and stir up political unrest once again?" 

“I know it is asking a lot---”

“It is asking a great deal more than a lot, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, holding up his hand to silence him, “And I will hear no more on it.”

Combeferre swallowed the words that were forcing themselves up his throat; the look in Enjolras' eyes was hard, unyielding. 

“Very well.” he said, voice so quiet that he doubted Enjolras even heard him.

Enjolras set the paper and pen down on the desk, taking a deep, shaky breath, “Here,” he said eventually, turning back to face him, “Write to Courfeyrac and then join us for dinner. And do not speak of this again, I pray."

With that was gone from the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Combeferre alone to his letter.

He sank down into the leather chair, head in his hands.

He had found Enjolras alive.

 _He had found Enjolras alive_.

He ought to have been rejoicing - instead, Combeferre felt like he was unravelling. He did not know this man; he was a stranger. Worse than a stranger - he was a ghost. A shell of someone Combeferre once knew, like a face you recognised in passing on the street but could not place.  

He had found Enjolras alive, but he might as well have been dead. 

Perhaps Courfeyrac had been right; 'let it be'.

Combeferre had had to interfere with fate.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say a HUGE thank you to those of you who have commented such wonderful things on this fic! It is the only reason this chapter is up so quick - I am on a massive inspiration boon almost entirely thanks to your lovely words! Thank you thank you thank you!
> 
> Also, these chapters will mostly be around 3k; I know the first one is 6k, but as there was a lot to introduce for this fic that's why it's so long. So this is about the standard chapter length for this fic now!

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair, feeling to Combeferre more a funeral wake than a pleasant reunion.

Following their conversation in the study he did not know how he could sit opposite Enjolras at the dining table and pretend that all was well. It had been a struggle enough to decide what he should write to Courfeyrac - how could he possibly explain all he had discovered in one letter? How could he introduce to Courfeyrac this completely new person that Enjolras had become? He was a stranger to him.

He had stared at the blank paper for thirty minutes before he had accepted defeat; the words would not come to him, no matter how he had tried to force them. 

When he ventured down into the dining room he found Enjolras and Grantaire sitting intimately close, talking together softly. He did not know what they were discussing, but it must have been amusing, for Grantaire said something that made Enjolras laugh aloud; it was disturbing, almost. Eight years ago Enjolras would certainly not have found any humour in anything Grantaire said. Their hands touched, fingers brushing. 

For some reason it made Combeferre deeply uncomfortable. 

The Grantaire that Combeferre recalled had been a drunken wretch - a miserable shadow skulking about Enjolras' feet like a dog, ever present and eternally snubbed. Enjolras had scarcely ever paid him any notice at all, and what little attention he did afford him had always been disdainful.

But now they shared a bed, shared a home, shared a life - and Combeferre could not comprehend it. 

“Combeferre! There you are!” Enjolras cried, waving Combeferre over when he noticed him hovering like a spectre in the doorway. He behaved as though their confrontation in the study had never happened.

“You were quite a while in the study," he said, "I trust everything is alright...?”

 _Of course not,_ he thought, but “Of course,” was what he said, forcing a smile to his face to accompany the words, the expression a reluctant chaperone to the lie.

“There was simply a lot for me to put in my letter," he said "You understand, I'm sure."

Enjolras gave a little nod, turning his attention to his meal.

As Combeferre sat down he noticed Marceline sitting with them, taking her meal at the table like family. The observation, however trivial, gave Combeferre faint hope; the Enjolras he remembered had considered all of humanity to be his equal, and that the maid should be welcome at their table warmed Combeferre's heart. Perhaps the revolutionary was still there somewhere, buried deep beneath eight years of denial.

“Where are your sons?” He asked, only then noticing the distinct lack of chaos in the room. 

“The children took their supper earlier. They are already abed.” Enjolras said, pouring himself some water from the claret jug on the table. Combeferre watched, frowning in confusion. 

“Grantaire no longer drinks,” Enjolras explained, noticing him looking. 

Combeferre felt himself flush.

“Forgive me – it was not polite of me to stare," he said, "Were my thoughts so obvious?”

“Not obvious so much as understandable,” Grantaire said with a wry smile, “After all, when was I ever seen without wine within my reach?”

Combeferre struggled for words, “Well, I have heard it is difficult to abandon such habits,” he said awkwardly, “I commend you for doing so.”

“How very gracious of you,” Grantaire said, taking a sip of water as one might nurse a fine burgundy. Combeferre got the distinct feeling he was being mocked.

“It is a pity your sons are already in bed,” He said, wanting to divert talk away from Grantaire's drinking, “I would have liked to spend some time with them; they seem delightful. I am sure they shall grow into fine young men.”

“We are doing the best we can by them,” Enjolras said, “I am educating them myself.”

“And I am certain you are doing an excellent job of it."

"He is," Grantaire said proudly, "He has taught them mathematics - heaven knows I am hopeless with such matters - and to read and write in English. Music, too - Camille plays the piano quite well indeed."

"That is impressive," Combeferre commented. 

"They speak Spanish, also," Enjolras added, pointedly laying his hand on Grantaire's, "That is Grantaire's doing. You ought not give me all the credit for their education, my love..."

Grantaire grinned at him, "That Valencian blood in me must be good for something, I suppose," he conceded, "But you have done the most of it."

Combeferre cleared his throat, "Yes, well - might I ask what they know of your...unusual predicament, Enjolras?"

“They do not know anything else.” Grantaire said, almost defensively, “We are honest with them about the manner of their birth. There is no shame in it; our family is all they have ever known. It is the usual kind of family, to them.”

“They do not see other children,” Enjolras confessed, looking rather ashamed of the fact, “I doubt they even know that society believes they are supposed to have a mother. We will be sure to teach them the value of discretion when they are ready to go out into the world...”

"Do they leave the house at all?"

"Only to play in the garden," Enjolras muttered, averting his gaze, "It is not safe for them to go elsewhere."

"Not even into town?"

"No," Enjolras said flatly, taking a bite of his food, "Can we talk of something else?"

Combeferre smiled weakly, “Of course - forgive me. I left the letter from Limoges on your desk,” He said, changing the subject, “I believe it is from your mother, if I am right in recalling her handwriting..."

“Of course.” Enjolras sighed, not glancing up from his plate, “She is probably sending me her usual criticisms...”

“Oh?”

“My family do not exactly approve of my marriage,” Enjolras said quietly, “Grantaire's family is respectable enough that they do not disown me, but they had grand ambitions for me, and a reasonably wealthy but non-influential family from Auvergne is apparently beneath those ambitions.”

"It is not our lack of good name that insults them so, Enjolras, and you know it," Grantaire said, "My mother is a Spaniard - heaven forbid!"

Combeferre raised his eyebrows, “Ah...” 

That certainly sounded like Enjolras' father, from what Combeferre could recall. Both Enjolras and his father regarded their country highly, though did so in drastically different ways. Enjolras' love was inspired from freedom; he wished for France to be a beacon of hope in Europe, an example of the value of liberty. His father, on the other hand, Enjolras said had always put more value in superiority, and anyone not of full French blood was to be looked upon with disdain. In his mind, from what Combeferre knew, France ought to have ruled the world; in Enjolras', no one had the right to rule at all. One was love for one's country; the other was vanity. Combeferre did not imagine it would take a scholar to identify which was which.

"Well whatever their reasons they disapprove of our union," Enjolras said.

“Not enough to see us on the streets though, apparently,” Grantaire laughed through a mouthful of his food.

“They send us an allowance on which to survive,” Enjolras explained to Combeferre, pushing the vegetables around on his plate, “For that at least I am grateful. I think my father is just pleased that I have given him two grandsons. He has his legacy now, as far as he is concerned - he cares a lot less who sired it. He had rather given up on marrying me off, I think. They send us a respectable living, and we don't question it...”

“Must you be at their mercy?”

“Unfortunately so. It is not as though I can get work anywhere - when we came to this town I was still living under the guise of being a woman. I cannot risk being seen by those who might recognise me.” Enjolras said, “And so I stay here, always, and busy myself however I can. Grantaire paints from time to time, but commissions are few and far – it is not enough to support us independently, at any rate...”

Combeferre felt his heart ache with sympathy. This was a cruel existence for someone like Enjolras. It seemed to Combeferre that a great injustice had been done upon his friend; the failed rebellion had robbed him of his fire, and fleeing the turmoil of it had robbed him of his freedom. 

He had always berated Enjolras for his tendency towards martyrdom, but now Combeferre found himself thinking that a glorious death would have suited Enjolras far better than this quiet domestic life.

He glanced across the table at Grantaire, wondering if he saw this too – was he content with this tame, declawed incarnation of Enjolras? Did he resent it?

Worse still - did he encourage it?

Combeferre took a large swig of water, trying to gather his thoughts.

“I married well, at least,” Grantaire joked, as though to break the uncomfortable silence in the room, “I settled far above my station, in my family's opinion. It remains quite a mystery to them how I managed it!" he said, “They wished for nothing more to do with me a few years back, but quite suddenly once I was married to Enjolras it seemed they developed a renewed love for me!"

“How excellent.” Combeferre said dryly.

“Did you finish your letter to Courfeyrac?” Enjolras asked conversationally, cutting the meat on his plate, "You did not say."

“Oh, yes,” Combeferre lied, not wanting to admit that he had been unable to find the words to explain everything, “I will go into town tomorrow to post it, if you are content to allow me to stay the night; I pray it is not too much trouble?"

“Of course not! You may stay as long as you wish,” Enjolras said, brightening immediately, “We have more than enough room for guests. You need not limit yourself to a few nights- you would be more than welcome here until summer ends. Longer still, even! Our third child is due in six months time - it would be reassuring, perhaps, to have a doctor present for the birth."

Combeferre was stunned, momentarily floored by the desperate edge to Enjolras' voice. It made his insides writhe with unease. 

“I...of course,” he said, already wondering how he might go about rearranging his prior engagements in Paris, “I would be happy to stay if I would not be imposing upon you both...”

“Not at all.” Enjolras said emphatically, looking to Grantaire, “Right?”

Grantaire shrugged, not even deigning to glance up from his meal, “It makes very little difference to me how long he stays.”

Enjolras took Combeferre's hand in his own, squeezing it, “It will be our pleasure to have you as our guest.” he said, "I shall have Marceline prepare your room for you."

They finished their meal mostly in silence, Enjolras occasionally inquiring after life in Paris but never allowing the conversation to stray in the direction of politics. 

“Give Pontmercy and his bride my fondest congratulations,” he said as Marceline began to clear the table, “Did you attend the wedding? When was it?”

“They have been wed near seven years now.” Combeferre said, “I was not present myself, but Courfeyrac attended and he said it was a delightful day. The weather was very fine. They are expecting their first child next February, I have heard.”

“Not long after ours is due then,” Enjolras mused, “I am pleased for Marius. It is good to know that at least one of us has made a good life for himself out of the wreckage of it all.”

Combeferre frowned, wanting to point out to Enjolras that he himself was supposedly happy. He bit his tongue.

“Yes, it would seem so. They are a nice couple,” he said, setting his cutlery down on his empty plate, “Thank you for dinner.”

“It was no trouble. Our home is yours.”

“Well then,” Grantaire stood from the table a little abruptly, removing his cravat as though it were bothering him. Combeferre he wondered if he too had noticed how Enjolras spoke of Marius and his happiness as though it were some mysterious, elusive thing beyond his reach. 

“I will be retiring to bed early. I think a bath is in order; the hot water will be good for my bruised nose,” he said pointedly, eyes flashing to Combeferre, “Enjolras, will you be joining me upstairs...?”

Enjolras shook his head, “I may stay down here with Combeferre a little longer,” he said, “It has been so long since we have seen each other; I should like to catch up with him a bit more.”

Grantaire eyed Combeferre almost suspiciously, “Very well. Do not be too long though, my love,” he said, leaning down to kiss Enjolras on the cheek, “I will have the bath water kept warm for you, and see that Marceline brings up some of that lavender oil you are so fond of. You ought not strain yourself in your condition...” he touched one hand tenderly to Enjolras' stomach, as though to make a point of reminding Combeferre that he was carrying his child.

Enjolras smiled, “I will not be long,” he promised.

"If you say so."

"I will be along soon enough," Enjolras said, rising from the table, “Come then, Combeferre - we can take a walk in the garden and talk. It is still light out.”

 

-

 

The doors to the garden were still open, and though dusk was sinking into night the sky was still light and the warm summer air smelled as sweet as honeysuckle.

“I do love this garden. It is my favourite thing about this house,” Enjolras said as he and Combeferre made their way up the cobbled path, arm in arm, “Overgrown though it may be."

"It is a little...disorganised," Combeferre commented, ducking to avoid some low-hanging wisteria.

"We were going to cut it all back," Enjolras said, stopping to smell some of the flowers, "But I found such peace here that I could not bear the thought. I felt as though I could sit here and be lost - as though I could almost become part of it. I asked Grantaire if he would be amenable to us leaving it thus, and he agreed. We cleared a small bit of grass for the boys, so that they might play freely, but the rest of it remains untouched..." his eyes took on a wistful gleam as he spoke. 

Combeferre wondered if how Enjolras spoke of the garden was how he felt about himself. It seemed the perfect metaphor; part of him had been cultivated into a fine family image, yes, but Combeferre fancied the vines that grew in Enjolras' heart still grew wild. 

"I craved city life for a while when we came here, but I found a new love for the country once we were settled," Enjolras said, "It seems I only dislike the countryside when my father owns half of it.”

“It is nice here,” Combeferre agreed, “Peaceful.”

“You do not need to pretend you care for it,” Enjolras said, shooting him a smirk, “Paris has you under her spell - and rightly so. She is intoxicating. I recall the feeling myself.”

“It is true,” Combeferre confessed, “I am quite enamoured with it all - but I can still appreciate the quiet of the countryside as much as the next man.”

Enjolras smiled, sitting down on a bench beneath with wisteria and motioning for Combeferre to join him, “I would like to apologise for earlier,” he said, “I ought not to have been so angry with you for bringing up the past..."

“You have no need to apologise,” Combeferre murmured, “I ought not have pressed the issue. You made it quite clear that it was a sensitive matter, and yet I persisted. I think I have grown more stubborn with age,” he joked, “But it saddens me to see you so jaded, Enjolras - I will not deny that.”

Enjolras fiddled anxiously with the button of his sleeve, as though he could not bring himself to look at him, “I did not mean to end up this way, Combeferre,” he said, “But I had no choice. I want to forget. It is the only way to survive the things that I saw.”

“It was difficult for you. I know that.”

“You don't – not truly.” Enjolras whispered, “I did not even want to leave the Corinthe; I was ready to die there. I was prepared for it. I did not believe it when the guards told Grantaire and I that we could leave; he had to drag me. I fought him, you know? I scratched his face like a wild beast and told him I had to die with the rest of you, that it was my fate. He told me not to be such a stubborn fool and all but carried me out of there.”

“I am glad that he saved you,” Combeferre said, “But I am not glad that it happened the way it did.”

“After that day I tried to put it behind me. I could not live with it - the guilt and the horror," Enjolras said, "I felt responsible, in a manner...”

“None of it was your fault,” Combeferre assured him, feeling his chest tighten at the thought of Enjolras blaming himself for all these years, “Those who went to the barricades did so of their own accord. They all believed in our cause; they all knew the risk, and weighed it worthwhile. There is no blood on your hands...”

“You know that isn't true,” Enjolras said, “I killed that young artilleryman, and others in the battle.”

“You only did what any of us would have done,"

“ _You_ did not kill anybody," Enjolras pointed out.

“No. I did not.” Combeferre confirmed, almost wishing that he had if only to lend Enjolras some sense of solidarity.

"You told me not to shoot the artillery guard."

Combeferre felt his mouth go dry, "Yes. I did," he said.

“Then do you not see?” Enjolras said, “Killing that poor young man did not amount to anything; I thought it a sacrifice for greater good, but no good came of it. It was a senseless killing, and it accomplished nothing."

"But you did not know that at the time."

"Does it matter? It does not negate the action. It does not negate the fact that I am a murderer.”

“Enjolras..."

"I want to forget, Combeferre. I want to have not been there, to have not witnessed what I did. I did not just see my friends die there, but my ideals, too. I watched a part of me murdered," Enjolras whispered, "But I have found peace, in a sense, in this new life of mine..."

“This new life suits you ill.” Combeferre said bluntly.

“Do not speak of what you do not know.”

“Are you happy here?”

Enjolras looked caught off guard by the question. He turned to look at him, his expression clouded by confusion. 

“What?"

“Are you happy here, Enjolras?”

Enjolras swallowed hard. Combeferre could see the conflict raging behind his eyes, eating him whole.

“Do not try to trick me...” he warned.

“Trick you into what?” Combeferre said, "Into being honest with yourself?”

Enjolras did not respond for a moment.

“What has given you the idea that I am not happy?” he said finally.

“You seemed very eager to have me stay here,” Combeferre said.

“Of course I am eager to have you stay here. You are my dear brother, and an excellent doctor,” Enjolras said, “Why would I not want you here for the birth of my third child?”

“I appreciate that you think so highly of me, Enjolras, but I was concerned that there may have been other reasons you wished to have me here...” Combeferre murmured.

“Such as what, exactly?”

“Well, Grantaire...” he started carefully, uncertain of how to proceed, “He is...good to you, I hope?”

“What do you mean?”

“He is kind?” Combeferre said, hoping that he would catch on so he did not have to say it. 

"Of course."

"What I mean to say is...well, he has never hurt you, has he? He has never forced himself upon you, or raised his hand to you...?"

Enjolras looked appalled, “Of course not!" he cried, "My god, are you truly so determined to think poorly of him?”

“I just---”

“He _loves_ me, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, “He has never hurt me, nor ever would. It would not even enter his mind to do so."

"You are certain of this fact?"

"I have been wed to him for some eight years. I believe I know the man enough by now to say so with confidence." 

"But how can you be so sure?" Combeferre persisted.

Enjolras sighed, "I know it may surprise you, Combeferre, but Grantaire is a good man, and an excellent father," he said, "He adores our boys - and he adores me, too." 

“And you return his sentiments?” Combeferre asked doubtfully. 

“I have grown to love him, yes, if that is what you are asking.”

Hearing him say it made a strange feeling stir in Combeferre's gut.

“But does it thus follow that you are happy here?” he asked.

“Combeferre..."

“Enjolras, please,” Combeferre pleaded, grabbing his hand desperately, “Come back to Paris with me; it is where you belong. Your place is with Courfeyrac and I, not out here raising children. I am begging you; come home.”

“Combeferre....” Enjolras looked down at their hands, at the way their fingers were interlaced, “Why do you want so fiercely to take me away from my family?”

“Because this life is not what you are meant for - you know it as much as I! Return to Paris."

“No,” Enjolras said, standing abruptly, “No. I will not be dragged back into all of this horror, Combeferre. I cannot do it again," he drew his hand back from Combeferre's, laying it against his stomach, "I am no longer a revolutionary. That man is dead."

“Enjolras, please...”

“I will hear no more. Please. I am tired - the child is making me feel quite unwell, and I must be abed."

"Enjolras..."

"Goodnight, Combeferre. Marceline shall show you to your room when you are ready."

With that he was gone, leaving Combeferre alone to his thoughts and the gathering darkness.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be from Enjolras' point of view; I will occasionally shift it up a bit with a different character's point of view, but most of it will still be from Combeferre's perspective.

“Are you quite alright, my love?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, starting on the buttons of his waistcoat a little more aggressively than was perhaps warranted, “Of course I am. Why on earth would I not be?”

“You have been out of sorts since Combeferre turned up on our doorstep," Grantaire pointed out. 

“I am merely surprised, that is all," Enjolras said, unwinding his cravat from around his neck, "I thought him dead for all this time yet now I learn that he and Courfeyrac are both alive – it is a joyous occasion, but a surprise all the same.”

Grantaire gave a scowl from where he was lounging across their bed, “You left your study earlier looking somewhat displeased,” he remarked, and Enjolras cursed him inwardly for the observation.

“Combeferre reminded me of some things I had hoped to forget, that is all,” He said quietly, pulling his shirt over his head, “I ask that you press no more on the matter.”

“And what of your walk in the garden?" Grantaire said, sitting up, "He has not upset you, has he? He will be having words with me presently if so." 

Enjolras did not respond, instead working on removing his trousers and the bandages around his chest. He did not want to think on his conversation with Combeferre, or linger too long on the desperation in his friend's eyes when he had pleaded with him to return to Paris. He stepped into the tub by the fire, sinking down into the water; it was still warm, steam rising off the surface. 

“Ah, and now you have gone silent on me,” Grantaire said, more to himself than to Enjolras, “I will take that to be a 'yes', then. You are not subtle, mon chéri,” he sighed, throwing up his hands in exasperation, “Always with such sullen silences!”

Enjolras furrowed his brow, glaring at him from the bath, “Do not put words in my mouth!”

“I have no need to, you do such a fine job of it yourself.”

“Let me be," Enjolras grumbled, making a point of closing his eyes, "I am trying to relax."

"You shall have quite the task of it - I can feel you bristling from here!"

"I said let me be!"

“I only wish to ease your troubles if I can,” Grantaire argued; Enjolras heard the mattress creak as he got to his feet, leaving the bed to kneel beside the tub, “You can tell me...” he urged, “Is it not my job to be your confidant? Is that not the role I have taken on these last years?"

Enjolras sighed, turning his head to look at him. In spite of his teasing he could see the concern in Grantaire's eyes, and it melted the ice in his heart in an instant.

“Forgive me," he said, resting his cheek against the side of the bath, "I should not subject you to my foul mood."

“You are quite excused,” Grantaire told him, dipping his fingers into the water and swirling it around mindlessly, watching the oil separate and form strange shapes, “You are allowed to be in foul moods from time to time - now more so than ever. Growing a child is surely not an easy task, you are very much entitled to your temper. You were an absolute tyrant when you were expecting François, too,” he joked.

Enjolras splashed him in response, fighting back the smile that was threatening to cross his face.

“Do not tempt me to drown you,” he warned.

“Ah, come now! You would never – who would rub your aching back for you if I were dead?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“But truly, what has Combeferre said that has your feathers so terribly ruffled...?” Grantaire asked, reaching forward to run his fingers through Enjolras' hair.

“Many things,”

“Well that hardly answers my question!"

“He wants me to return to Paris with him,” Enjolras said. There was a beat of silence.

“Oh," Grantaire said.

“Yes.”

“And what did you have to say to this proposition...?”

“I said no, of course.”

“Ah,” Grantaire said, the relief in his voice palpable, “Well. That is good to know...”

"Why? Did you think that I might agree to it?"

"You just told me not to put words in your mouth, and so I will keep my own shut on the matter," Grantaire said, holding his hands up as though Enjolras were pointing a gun in his face.

“Well I told him no, all the same," Enjolras said, "I do not know why he even entertains the idea that I would. It is as though he forgets what happened that June. The people left us to our fate, with barely a care. They did not open their doors when the barricade was stormed; they left schoolboys to the mercy of grapeshot. It was barbaric. I would never so foolishly place my life in the hands of the people of Paris again...”

“You speak as though to convince yourself,” Grantaire pointed out quietly.

Enjolras ignored him, sinking further down into the water to soak his hair. Grantaire sighed, moving behind him to help wash his curls, pulling apart the knots in his hair with gentle hands. 

“I am glad you are not going, at any rate.” he said, "Our children need you here - _I_ need you here."

“I know.” Enjolras murmured, closing his eyes, “I will not be going anywhere,” he vowed.

“Good.”

“You were curt towards Combeferre at dinner,” Enjolras commented, relishing the feeling of Grantaire's hands in his hair. 

“Ah. Yes. I was waiting for you to chastise me for that.” Grantaire said, “Forgive me, but I saw how upset you were when you left the study - I assumed he was the only reason you could be so distressed. And I was correct, was I not? So you have no reason to scold me too harshly.”

“For once.” Enjolras said, smirking a little, “Do not let it go to your head.”

Grantaire chuckled, pressing a fond kiss to his head, “I will try not to.” he said, “Aside from your troubles with Combeferre, are you feeling well?”

“Yes. This child appears to be giving me less trouble than the last two, at least.”

“That is a fortunate thing,” Grantaire said, working through a particularly hard knot of curls, “She is kinder than her brothers, then.”

“She?”

“Forgive me if I am getting carried away, but I confess that I am rather hopeful for a daughter. We should have at least one girl in this house; it seems right.”

“That is a refreshing attitude,” Enjolras said offhandedly, “My family had a rather unhealthy obsession with sons. It is little wonder I was a disappointment to them.”

“You ought not be a disappointment to anyone,” Grantaire said fiercely, “And aside from that, who was it that decreed sons be more a blessing than daughters? It is nonsense. My sisters are both far finer people than I! I am overjoyed by the thought of a daughter.”

“You are so sure it will be a girl?” Enjolras raised one eyebrow.

“I have a strong feeling in my gut.”

“Well do not put money on it, I beg,” Enjolras said, “My parents thought the same of me, after all.”

At this Grantaire laughed loudly, an almost musical sound that rang in his chest and made Enjolras' heart swell.

“A fine point!" he said, "Ah, would that we might end up with a son more like you! Oh, you know, I believe I would rather like that!"

Enjolras let out amused hum, “We will have to find out with time, I suppose,” he said, sitting up in the bathtub and hugging his knees to his chest, “Promise me that you will be kinder to Combeferre tomorrow?” he asked, “I know that he did not mean to upset me."

“I will try my best,” Grantaire swore, squeezing the water out of his hair for him, “But if he upsets you again I cannot promise to hold my tongue; you know it is rather prone to doing it's own thing.”

“Yes, I know that only too well.” Enjolras said as Grantaire helped him out of the tub and passed him a sheet to wrap around himself.

He dried himself off by the fire and pulled on his nightshirt, joining Grantaire in bed and busying himself with braiding his hair.

“I do not wish to see you and Combeferre waging war against each other,” he said.

“And I do not wish to be at war with him,” Grantaire offered, staring up at the canopy of the bed, “But he seems to imagine me guilty of unforgivable crimes against you, and I confess I find myself indignant about it. Does he think me some terrible brute? Some scoundrel who would think to take advantage of you? He surely mistakes me for my father.”

“He is like my brother, and thus protective of me, as brothers are wont to be,” Enjolras said, deciding it best not to mention what Combeferre had asked about him earlier, “He only does not wish to see me hurt.”

“As though I could hurt you,” Grantaire said, scorn creeping into his voice, “As though it would even enter my mind!”

“I know that,” Enjolras said, taking his hand, “But he does not.”

“He ought to! Even at my most disgraceful in the Musain I was never cruel. Does he forget that?” Grantaire curled his lip in disgust, "If he accuses me of violence I shall be sorely tempted to prove him right - we shall instead see how _his_ nose likes it! Some time has passed since last I boxed, but I am sure I could still best him in a fight..."

"Please do not."

"Fine. But he still wounds me with his disapproval."

“He will come to see that he is wrong,” Enjolras reassured him, rolling over to face him in bed, “He will see in you what I came to see. I am sure of it.”

Grantaire managed a small smile at that, reaching to tuck a damp curl of hair behind his ear, “If you say so.” he said, letting his fingers rest gently on Enjolras' cheek for a moment, “You should speak with him more, though.”

“Of you?”

“Flattered though I am, no,” Grantaire shook his head, “You said yourself that he has suffered as much as you. You should talk of it with him.”

“I _have_ ,” Enjolras argued, “I have told him of how I feel, and why I cannot return to Paris. He knows; I told him outright.”

“Have you asked him how _he_ feels?”

“I...” Enjolras stopped short, suddenly feeling sick with shame, “Oh.”

“He is dealing with those memories too.” Grantaire reminded him gently, “One would wager that he is trying so hard to steal you back to Paris in the hopes things can return to the way they were.”

“They can never go back to the way they were before 1832,” Enjolras said, “He is intelligent; he must know that...”

“I am sure he does - but even a wise man like Combeferre can be a fool to hope. It is an intoxicating drug, believe me.” Grantaire leaned forwards, kissing him softly on the lips, “Try to rest,” he urged, “But do think on what I said. I know I am not best known for my sage advice, but I think it might help.”

“I think you may be correct...”

“An unusual turn of events, then,” Grantaire said playfully. The look in his eyes suddenly grew more serious, and he turned his face from him, “Will you promise me one thing though, Enjolras...?” he said, voice grave.

Enjolras frowned, “Of course. Anything.”

“Promise me that I will not lose you to a revolution. I almost did before, and it was agonizing. Now that we have built a life together it is even more unimaginable to me. My heart could not handle it.”

In response Enjolras moved closer to him beneath the sheets, brushing his lips against the corner of his mouth, “I promise.” he said, closing his eyes, “You have my word.”

 

-

 

Enjolras woke with a start, the foul smell of gunpower still stinging his nose, hands reaching out for Courfeyrac as the roar of grapeshot rattled in his chest. It was all fading before his eyes; blood and bodies and shattered furniture melting away into darkness, disappearing like fog until he was left sitting bolt upright in his bed, someone holding him tightly to their chest.

“Enjolras! It's alright, Enjolras---it's alright! You are here. You are safe.” It was Grantaire's voice that made him realise he was in their bedroom, shaking violently in Grantaire's arms.

He could still hear the cannons, still taste iron in his mouth...

“Grantaire...?”

“Yes, Enjolras. It's me.” Grantaire said, stroking the back of his head, “I'm here. You are alright. You aren't there any more. You're home, you're safe...”

Enjolras gave a heavy sigh, his heart still beating furiously in his chest. He took a deep breath, pressing his face into Grantaire's shoulder.

“I am sorry,” he said, trembling, “I am sorry that I do this...”

“It is alright.” Grantaire whispered, clinging to him almost as desperately as Enjolras clung to him, “Truly, it is alright...”

“I thought I was getting better,” Enjolras said, sagging against him in defeat, “It has been weeks...forgive me...”

“You don't need to apologise,” Grantaire said, “You don't need to, ever.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, “I was there again.” he said.

 

-

 

Enjolras rose early the next day, having found little rest following his nightmare. Grantaire had slipped back to sleep with ease, and Enjolras could not help but resent him for it.

It was only just growing light outside when Enjolras ventured out of their bedroom, briefly looking in on Camille and François before he made his way down to the parlour. He seated himself in the bay window to watch the sun rise, and it was there that Combeferre found him an hour later, engrossed in a book.

“You are still an early riser, then?” Combeferre asked, adjusting his spectacles.

“Only when I cannot help it.” Enjolras said, closing the book softly, “I am restless this morning.”

“Yes, I...heard you screaming last night,” Combeferre started, shooting him a cautious look, “You sounded very distressed. Are you quite alright?”

“Are you going to accuse Grantaire of mistreating me again?”

Combeferre blanched a little, “No,” he said, “Unless he has – in which case I will kill him.”

“I have nightmares.” Enjolras informed him, pushing his hair out of his face, “Terrible nightmares, so vividly real it feels as though I am back on the barricades..."

“I know...”

“No, you do not, I---”

“I _know_ , Enjolras,” Combeferre cut in. His severe expression softened slightly, and he looked down, “Courfeyrac gets them too.”

Enjolras felt his heart drop.

“Oh.” he said, looking down at his lap; it was selfish, he knew, but he found comfort in learning that he was not alone.

“He wakes crying some nights; his whole body shakes with them. It is horrible to witness. I do not know how to help him.” A pained look came over Combeferre as he spoke, “I have had to go into his room and hold him through them so many times.”

“Grantaire does the same for me.” Enjolras said, “I know he does not understand them, but he tries. I see how hard it is for him to watch me suffering and feel helpless.”

Combeferre nodded, “I know I have the nightmares too,” he said, “But I am fortunate enough that I scarcely recall them. If I have ever cried out in the night Courfeyrac has not told me that I do.”

“It is unfair, isn't it?” Enjolras whispered, “What it has done to us all? All we wanted to do was help people.” he rested his head against the window, looking out at the garden, bathed in the hazy glow of morning light.

“I hate that for trying to make our country better we find ourselves made all the worse.”

“So do I.” Combeferre agreed. He glanced down at the book still in Enjolras' hands, raising his eyebrows, “Rousseau. I thought you had given up on such things?”

“I have,” Enjolras said, “But my former politics have been on my mind since you arrived.” he confessed, running one finger absent-mindedly along the book's spine, “I had the strangest urge to read through some of my old books again.”

Combeferre smiled sadly, sitting down next to him, “I am sorry about that.” he said, “And about last night. You are right; it is not my place to pull you away from your family.”

Enjolras passed him the book, watching as Combeferre opened it to see what page he had been on.

“I owe you an apology too, my friend," he said, "I fear I have not been a very good brother to you, since you showed up at my door. I was too busy worrying that you might make me relive that June to think how it might feel for you to find me so changed.”

Combeferre gave a weak shrug, “I was too focused on wanting you to come back to Paris with me to even contemplate that you may not want to.”

Enjolras took Combeferre's hand, gripping his fingers tightly with his own, “Perhaps we ought to try and start over?”

“I would like that.” Combeferre decided, and Enjolras could hear the crack of emotion in his voice, “I would like that very, very much.”

“So would I.”

Combeferre sighed, gazing out of the window at the garden as the sun spilled across the flowerbeds and grass.

Enjolras smiled, resting his head against Combeferre's shoulder, “I have missed you.” he said.

“I have missed you too.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herein this chapter is a very important lesson from this trans guy about SAFE BINDING.

In August the weather reached an unreasonable peak, so stifling that even with every window of the house wide open Combeferre found he could hardly breathe.

As it was they spent most of their days in the garden, retiring to the shade and hoping for the release of a slight breeze. It pleased Combeferre at least to find that with this heatwave Enjolras had taken to reading many of his old books again; “There is little else to do in weather such as this,” he had said by way of excuse, dismissing it as nothing more than a way to pass the time. One afternoon Combeferre had gone into the study to pen a letter to Courfeyrac and found Marceline dusting the bookshelves, apparently at Enjolras' behest.

“Monsieur Enjolras asked me to clean in here,” she had explained, and Combeferre had felt his heart swell in his chest, “He has been reading more, of late.”

Aside from the sweltering heat it was a beautiful day, Combeferre thought. The sun sparkled on the surface of the pond, and the last of the flowers were still in bloom, attracting butterflies the likes of which Combeferre had not seen before. He wondered briefly if Enjolras might consider it too morbid if he were to catch a few to study and frame upon their death.

“Go on,” Enjolras said, from where he sat opposite him.

Combeferre sighed, looking once more over the letter he had received that morning from Courfeyrac; it read less like a letter and more an exhaustive list of questions that totalled three pages long.

“When was François born?”

“April 18th, 1837.”

“And what colour are his eyes?”

“Brown, the same as Grantaire's. Now are you quite finished?” Enjolras asked, fanning himself with one hand, “I feel rather like I am under interrogation,” he jested.

“No, unfortunately,” Combeferre said, fiddling with his spectacles as he continued his way through the list, “He has a great deal many more questions he wishes me to forward to you. He would like to know the date you and Grantaire were wed.”

“October 16th, 1832,”

“Mhmm. And he wishes to know why you did not name either of your sons after him---”

Enjolras scoffed, “Oh, come now! Is he serious?”

“Apparently so.”

Enjolras made an exasperated sound, sipping his tea, “His first name did not suit either of our boys.” he said simply, “Otherwise he ought to know I would have. It did not fit well with the family name 'Grantaire'.”

“I am sure he will be devastated to hear as such,” Combeferre joked, eyes still fixed on the paper. He raised his eyebrows, clearing his throat, “He also asks several questions I do not frankly feel comfortable putting to you,” he said, passing the letter to Enjolras, who turned slightly red as he looked it over and then burst out laughing; the sound was like music to Combeferre after all these years.

“He has no shame at all! That at least has not changed about him.” Enjolras said, tossing the paper back across the table to Combeferre, “You may tell Courfeyrac that though I appreciate his desire to catch up what happens in my marriage bed shall have to remain quite a mystery to him!”

Combeferre smirked, nodding, “Duly noted.” he said, folding the paper, “We'll leave it at that then, I think. I will respond to him later this evening...”

“Send him my love,” Enjolras remarked, wrinkling his nose as he took another sip of tea.

“How can you stand to drink that in this heat?” Combeferre said, gesturing to his drink.

“It is not by choice, believe me,” Enjolras said, “It is some herbal infusion. Marceline insists upon it for the good of the child.”

“Well, I do not mean to doubt her wisdom, but she is little more than a child herself...” Combeferre muttered, taking the tea cup from Enjolras to inspect it's contents.

“You say it as though we are so much older than her.”

“Well, I did at least study medicine...” Combeferre said, giving the tea a sniff.

“And for all the good that did you Marceline has still delivered more children than you have,” Enjolras retorted, taking the tea back from him, “So pay her the respect she deserves. I owe her a debt for two healthy sons.”

Combeferre dipped his head, embarrassed, “Of course. My apologies.”

Enjolras smiled fondly, his gaze drifting across the garden to where Grantaire was trying to teach Camille to fence. They had each claimed a stick with which to attack the other, and Grantaire was now attempting to show Camille how to properly position his feet.

“Why do we have to use sticks, father?” The boy complained, shoulders sagging, “I want a real sabre!”

“Aha, maybe when you are older!” Grantaire said, grinning from ear to ear, “Say, perhaps for your thirtieth birthday...”

“Do not make fun!” Camille pouted, swatting at him with his stick.

“I do no such thing!” Grantaire argued, dodging it easily, “But I do not much fancy being a pincushion any time soon! Come now, put your feet right, as I showed you – you will not win any duels with a bad stance.”

“I will not win any duels at all with a stick.”

Grantaire sighed, looking over at Enjolras and Combeferre almost hopelessly.

As he turned his back Camille lunged at him, striking him across the back of the legs with his stick.

“Ah! I yield!” Grantaire cried, clutching his stomach as though mortally wounded and falling back onto the grass with a dramatic flourish, “I yield, you brute! Show some mercy, I beg.”

“Father don't be so silly. You aren't hurt!” Camille scoffed.

“No, I think you will find that I am,” Grantaire said, draping one arm across his face, “I think you might find me quite fatally injured. I! Your own father! You are a monster, Monsieur!”

Camille jabbed at him with the stick, frowning, “I did not even hit your stomach!” he said, “You are being ridiculous!”

“And you are being far too like your father,” Grantaire sighed, still laying flat on his back, “Enjolras, your son is an insufferable pedant!”

“Nobody duels with sabres any more anyway!” Camille said matter-of-factly, “If we were _really_ dueling then I would have a pistol!”

The effect of the boy's words was immediate; Combeferre saw all the colour leave Enjolras in an instant, his face turning deathly pale. He gripped his cup tightly.

“Camille, listen to your father!” he shouted across the garden, “He is trying to teach you a fine sport; pay attention. That's quite enough talk of dueling and pistols, do you hear?”

Camille visibly shrunk, eyes fixed on Enjolras, “Yes, papa...”

Grantaire sat up on the grass, looking almost guilty for his encouragement, “Come, Camille – would you like to do something else?” he offered, shooting Enjolras an apologetic look, “I could show you how to paint instead, if you would like?”

“No, it is fine.” Camille said, throwing down his stick with very deliberate force and looking over at Enjolras, “This wasn't any fun anyway.”

Enjolras shook his head, turning back to Combeferre, “He is so unruly,” he muttered, as though it were a curse, “I do not know what we will do with him when he is older...”

“You fear for him?” Combeferre asked.

“Of course.” Enjolras said, looking down into his now cold tea, “He is very interested in Paris – he wants to visit when he is old enough. I do not want him to follow in my footsteps, make the same mistakes...” he closed his eyes, “It would kill me to lose him.”

“I am sure it will not come to that.” Combeferre said.

“Let us hope so.”

As he said this Grantaire made his way over to them, still ruffled from his game with Camille; his dark curls were askew and there were grass stains on his shirt.

“I am sorry for that,” he said, taking a seat beside Enjolras, “I did not expect him to start going on about pistols and the like.”

“It is not your fault,” Enjolras said, “He has a wild nature.”

“In a word,” Grantaire agreed, “A wonder from where he inherits it...” he said, looking pointedly at Enjolras.

Enjolras laughed, “From _you_ , if you recall correctly!”

“Ah, that conversation was a long time ago!” Grantaire waved it away, “He is nothing like me in personality. He does not even wish to learn how to paint, apparently! How tragic that I of all people should sire a philistine.”

“Where has he gone to now, then?”

“Pilfering some cakes from the kitchen with his brother, I believe.” Grantaire said, leaning back in his seat. He turned next to Combeferre, noticing Courfeyrac's letter in his hand and snatching it from him curiously, “Ah - are you quite done interrogating our dear husband, Monsieur?”

“ _Our_ husband?” Combeferre narrowed his eyes.

“Well, why not? Since you have so firmly placed yourself in the middle of our marriage,” Grantaire gave him a scathing look for a moment, before glancing back down at the letter, “Courfeyrac asks a great deal many questions. Why do you not invite him here to find the answers for himself?” he suggested to Enjolras.

“That is not a wise idea, believe me,” Combeferre said, taking the paper back rather forcefully; he had already had quite enough of Grantaire's sharp tongue for today.

“And why so?”

“Courfeyrac is not in a position to travel.”

Enjolras frowned, “Is he sick?”

“In some manner,” Combeferre mumbled, “He has taken to ginshops and opium dens far too much of late. He is a wreck, in truth.”

Enjolras' expression twisted into one of anguish, “Why did you not think to tell me this?” he asked, horrified.

“I did not think it of much consequence...”

“He is my brother as much as you are!”

Combeferre sighed, “I am sorry. I should have told you. But I do not think it is good to invite him out here.” he said, “Not with your children present, nor with a husband so new to sobriety...” he added, gaze resting on Grantaire.

It was childish, Combeferre knew, but he was glad he had been able to get at least one biting remark in at the cynic. If Combeferre had to endure his taunting then he would at least aim to land a few blows himself.

“Oh, of course not,” Grantaire snorted, waving it off, “Very unwise. Instead you would have Enjolras go to him, yes? In Paris?”

Combeferre stiffened, “That is not what I was suggesting...”

“Both of you quiet yourselves before I do it for you,” Enjolras sighed, setting down his cup, “This tea is vile. I am quite done with it.” he stated, changing the subject.

“Marceline shall not be happy.” Grantaire pointed out.

“Well she shall have to be unhappy! I cannot drink any more of this; it is making me feel sick. It was supposed to do the opposite.” Enjolras complained.

Grantaire smiled, glancing at Combeferre, “Anyway, do forgive me, Combeferre – Enjolras told me I should be kinder to you.”

“And of course you are well known for doing exactly what Enjolras wants of you...” Combeferre said.

Grantaire frowned at the remark, and then, rather unexpectedly, smiled, “You are good sport, Combeferre!” he said, patting him on the shoulder, “Perhaps we shall be friends after all.”

“Perhaps. Anyhow, as to Courfeyrac---”

“We will not be visiting Paris any time soon.”

“I was not about to ask you to. Instead, I suggest this - allow me to go back to Paris myself for a few days. I shall see to it that Courfeyrac is in a manageable state and then bring him with me when I return.” Combeferre offered.

Grantaire studied him for a moment, as though trying to see through some cleverly engineered deceit, and then nodded, “That sounds reasonable...”

“Good.”

“Enjolras? What do you think?” Grantaire asked, trailing off; at the very same moment Combeferre too noticed how pale Enjolras had suddenly become.

“Enjolras...?”

“Hm?”

“Grantaire asked what you thought about me returning briefly to Paris to fetch Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said, scanning Enjolras' face for some hint of his health. His cheeks were drained of blood, and his eyes did not seem to focus for more than a heartbeat.

“Oh. I do not know. It sounds like a good arrangement to me. Forgive me, I believe I may need to be excused...” Enjolras murmured, getting to his feet and bringing one hand to his stomach, “I feel rather ill. I do not think this heat is agreeing with me...”

“I shall help you to the bedroom,” Grantaire offered, reaching out to steady him, “Perhaps you ought to rest?”

“I think so,” Enjolras agreed, “I---!" he broke off suddenly, doubling up where he stood. His face twisted with pain for a moment, and then he was down on his knees before Combeferre had even had the chance to stand.

“Enjolras?!”

“Give him space,” Combeferre urged, kneeling down beside him, “Enjolras, can you speak...?”

Enjolras shook his head, jaw clenched as he bit back a cry.

“We need to get him inside,” Combeferre said; Grantaire was already ahead of him in that regard, having immediately hoisted Enjolras up awkwardly into his arms.

Combeferre led the way, ushering the children into the parlour so they would not see what was happening, “Camille, where is Marceline---?”

“She has gone into town, Monsieur,” the boy said, wide eyes fixed on Enjolras, “She had to buy meat for dinner. Monsieur, what is wrong with my father...?”

“Nothing,” Combeferre said, turning him away from the sight, “He is fine. Can you run into town and find her, Camille?”

“I...I am not allowed to leave the house...” Camille frowned, moving to look past Combeferre at his parents, “Is my sister hurting him, Monsieur?”

“No. He will be well. And I am giving you permission to go into town to bring Marceline here,” Combeferre said firmly, “It is important she comes quickly. Can you do that?”

Camille looked between Combeferre and Enjolras helplessly, and then nodded.

“Yes, Monsieur...” he said.

“Go, then. Quickly. There's a good lad.”

Combeferre watched him run off as he was told and then sprinted two stairs at a time up to the bedroom, where Grantaire had set Enjolras down on the bed.

“What is wrong with him?” Grantaire demanded, clutching Enjolras' hand tightly with both his own.

“I do not yet know,” Combeferre said, desperate to calm him; the last thing he needed as of now was Grantaire in a state of panic. Without Marceline to aid him Grantaire was the only assistant Combeferre had.

“I need you to remain calm,” he said, starting to pull off Enjolras' boots, “And help me undress him. This heat is not helping matters in the slightest; he needs to cool down.”

“Alright...” Grantaire said, unbuttoning Enjolras' waistcoat as quickly as he could, “And his bindings, too...?”

Combeferre spun to face him, eyebrows raised, “He is still wearing them?” he said, incredulous despite his best efforts, “In this weather? In his condition?”

“He is rarely without them.” Grantaire said, in a manner that suggested the answer should have been obvious. Of course it should have been obvious, Combeferre realised; this was Enjolras. He was stubborn - that much apparently hadn't changed.

“Well we need to take them off.”

Grantaire tensed up, narrowing his eyes, “He will not be happy about that...”

“I appreciate your dedication to his pride, but it is a matter of life and death,” Combeferre snapped, his patience finally spent. Enjolras let out an incoherent mumble, eyes closed.

“Please. Remove them. I shall turn and look away if it will better appeal to your newly modest sensibilities.”

Grantaire finally obliged, looking as though he was still very much tempted to argue, “Fine,” he said, “Turn around.”

Combeferre did as he bid, waiting until Enjolras was undressed and covered with a light sheet before turning back around.

“Thank you,” he said, rolling up his sleeves, “Now, I shall need you to leave the room---”

“What?!” Grantaire's eyes widened, “No. No, I am not going anywhere – I will not leave his side. You shall have to drag me, Monsieur."

“Grantaire,” Combeferre put one hand on his arm, preventing him from going to Enjolras' bedside, “Please. François is still outside,” he reminded him gently, “He is frightened. He does not know what is happening. Please; step aside and let me work.”

Something seemed to change in Grantaire's demeanour; some flicker of realisation passing behind his eyes. He stepped back, as though remembering himself.

"François..." he murmured, "Yes, I...he will need me..."

"Enjolras will be in good hands,” Combeferre promised, “We are very different people, Grantaire, but we are united in our concern for his well-being,” he reasoned, “Please. Trust me to take care of him.”

With that Grantaire admitted defeat; he threw up his hands, backing up towards the door, “Very well,"

When he was gone Combeferre turned his attention at last to Enjolras, still clinging weakly to consciousness. Looking upon him Combeferre felt his heart hammering in his chest, his hands starting to shake; he had been a physician for nearly eight years now, but never before had Combeferre found himself weighing the life of someone he loved in his hands.

“Right,” he said, more to himself than to Enjolras, for he doubted his friend could hear him, “Let us see what this child is intending to do, then.”

 

-

 

When Combeferre finally stepped out into the parlour he found Grantaire asleep on the chaise, François sprawled out on him. The young boy was stretched out to full length, his head resting in his father's lap.

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire stirred slightly, rubbing his eyes, “Hm...?”

“May we speak?”

It only took a moment for Grantaire to recall why he had been banished to the parlour; he stood quickly, adjusting François so that he would not be disturbed.

“How is he?” He asked, before Combeferre could get half a word in.

“He is fine,” Combeferre assured him, “And he has not lost the child.”

Grantaire sank to his knees, his head in his hands, the relief seeming to knock the very breath out of him, “Thank god...”

“He is resting now; I have given him a dose of laudanum to ease the pain,” Combeferre said, “I think he may simply be suffering the effects of distress – he has been through a lot these last weeks, and his condition is delicate. However, for the sake of his health and that of the child I would recommend him going into confinement immediately.”

“Confinement? In this heat?” Grantaire said, aghast, “Have you completely lost your wits? He will roast to death before the child is ever born!”

“We will take measures to see that does not happen,” Combeferre said, “We will place pails of water by the windows, so that any breeze may cool the room, and make sure that he does not overheat.”

Grantaire ran one hand anxiously through his curls, “Confinement,” he repeated, as if the word were new to him. He stood, only to collapse back down onto the chaise, closing his eyes, “He shall hate that.”

Combeferre was inclined, for once, to agree with him.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 19th century medicine really wasn't great tbh - moral of this chapter.

Three months passed without event. The sweltering heat of the summer finally relented to Autumn, and with the cooler air Enjolras' health seemed to steadily improve. Every other day he demanded to know if his confinement was still necessary, and every other day Combeferre was tasked with the painful duty of disappointing him.

After the first week Enjolras had demanded reading material from his study to occupy him, and since then there had been a constant stream of literature passing from one room to the next. At first Combeferre had exercised caution, picking books of a more moderate political nature, but it soon became apparent that Enjolras' appetite demanded otherwise.

By the second month he was once more leafing through his old favourites, and inwardly Combeferre's heart soared to see him doing so.

Grantaire did not intervene, but each time Combeferre made a trip to the study to retrieve more books he would linger like a shadow in the doorway, watching him with patent disapproval.

“I am done with my books again.” Enjolras said one afternoon when Combeferre called upon him to check up on his condition.

“Done?” he said, stunned.

“Yes.”

Combeferre looked at the pile sitting on the nightstand, astounded; it was two foot high and two weeks old, and Enjolras had finished with them. If reading was a feast for the soul as Combeferre so believed, then Enjolras had devoured them as though they were little more than a light snack.

“You have gone through them _all_?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, impatient, “I have nought else to do all day, since you insisted upon locking me up like an animal." he sniffed, "And I have always been a quick reader - don't you remember?"

“Yes, of course I do,” Combeferre laughed, picking up the book that was on the top of the pile, “But I am still impressed. Some of these are challenging reads for anyone. Would you like me to fetch more for you?”

“If you would.”

“Are you quite certain you _have_ any more books left in the study?” Combeferre jested raising one eyebrow.

“Oh, leave off,” Enjolras scoffed, waving dismissively, “Will you bring me more?”

“Of course. Of the same subject...?”

“Yes.”

Combeferre smiled, flipping through the book for himself, “These remind me of better times,” he said, running his fingers wistfully over the edges of the pages, “In fact I believe I have a copy of this one myself.”

“You do,” Enjolras informed him, “I recall reading it eight years ago. I've since acquired my own.”

Combeferre made a thoughtful sound, setting the book down, “Not entirely lost of your principals, then.” he remarked.

Enjolras shrugged, “Apparently not.” he said, “It is hard to shake them off entirely, even if it was a doomed cause.”

“Well then, I shall go and fetch you some more---”

“Wait,” Enjolras said, as Combeferre turned to leave. Combeferre froze.

“Yes?”

“I want to discuss some things with you first,” he said, leaning over to search for a particular book among the pile, “I was rereading something earlier and I had some new thoughts about it; I would like your opinion on the matter.”

Combeferre stayed put, stunned by the request. Since he had arrived Enjolras had not once discussed politics with him, save to disregard them entirely. He looked at Combeferre expectantly, patting a space beside him on the bed; “Well?” he said, opening the book in his lap; he had marked several pages with ribbon.

“Sit down.”

Combeferre obliged.

They talked of the ideals in his books for hours, tossing thoughts back and forth and debating where they disagreed. Briefly Combeferre noticed the fire return to Enjolras' eyes; though he was pale and exhausted by his condition he seemed to be transformed momentarily back into the man who had captivated crowds in the Musain. A part of him presumed dead had been resurrected once more by their conversation, even if only temporarily. The stranger that had greeted Combeferre at the door months earlier was gone, replaced for a short while by the man he had known and grieved for for years.

Two hours had passed and the room was growing dark around them when Grantaire appeared in the doorway, a candle in hand.

“Monsieur, do I have permission to call upon my husband?” He asked, the slight crease of his brow intensified by the candlelight.

Combeferre rose from the bed, picking up the book he had been discussing with Enjolras and holding it to his chest.

“Of course. This is your bedroom, is it not?” he said.

“I am not entirely sure any more,” Grantaire said, setting the candle down on the nightstand, “After all you have had me banished to sleeping elsewhere so that Enjolras might have the bed to himself...” he paused, “And yet here I find he does not have it to himself after all.”

Combeferre felt himself bridle a little, “You do not need my permission to be here.”

“Of late it feels that way.” Grantaire said, gaze moving warily from Combeferre to Enjolras, “Forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt you. I am sure the two of you had many important plans to discuss together.”

“We were finished talking,” Enjolras said, laying his head back on the pillow and extending one hand towards Grantaire, "Come sit with me a while," he urged, "The baby is moving; she is giving me no sleep."

Grantaire did as Enjolras asked, claiming the spot on the bed where Combeferre had just been sitting and placing one hand tenderly on Enjolras' stomach to feel the child's movements, "You ought to be resting more than reading," he said, looking pointedly at Combeferre.

"I have to do something to pass the time," Enjolras argued, "Do not trouble yourself about it."

"If you say." Grantaire glanced at Combeferre, frowning, "Will you leave us now, Monsieur?" 

Combeferre nodded, collecting the books from the nightstand, “Of course. I shall bring you more in the morning,” he told Enjolras, “It is too dark for you to be reading now, at any rate.”

Enjolras smiled weakly, “Goodnight, my friend.”

“Goodnight.”

 

-

 

Autumn passed quickly into winter, the weather growing colder with each day. When Christmas came about it was a markedly dismal affair with Enjolras confined to his room. Combeferre helped the children to decorate the house, draping ivy along the mantel in the parlour and hanging mistletoe in the doorways. It was pleasant to feel a part of their family, but at all times Combeferre found himself acutely aware that he was a poor substitute for Enjolras.

Though the small nature of the town was taking it's toll on Combeferre he had, at least, discovered a fine hatter from whom he had purchased Courfeyrac a new top hat for his present. It was an ambitious purchase - something Courfeyrac would only wear if he found himself attending social gatherings. Over the last few years he had started to do so less and less, often foregoing such invitations for a night in with a bottle of gin, and Combeferre wondered if he was in fact being too hopeful in buying the top hat for him. 

The children settled down in the parlour to open their gifts at midnight, and around the same time Combeferre found himself sitting opposite Grantaire in the dining room with a table full of festive food.

“May I put together a plate for Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, already piling a plate high with sweet tarts and roasted chestnuts, “Or is he still to be subjected to bland food?”

“I don't suppose a few things from the table shall cause much harm,” Combeferre said, uncorking a bottle of wine.

“He shall be pleased with that, then,” Grantaire said, more to himself than to Combeferre, "He has been complaining to me of his diet, of late."

"Blander foods are better for him in his condition," Combeferre told him.

"If you say..." Grantaire glanced over as Combeferre poured himself a glass of the wine, an almost longing look in his eyes, “Pour me a glass,” he said, "I believe I have earned a brief reprieve from sobriety of late...”

Combeferre frowned, “Are you certain?”

“It is a season of merrymaking, is it not? Pour me some wine.”

Combeferre did as he said, handing him the glass. In truth this whole situation was absurd to him; he had not imagined he would find himself celebrating this time of year with Grantaire and the children as Enjolras slept upstairs.

“Have you a gift for Enjolras?” Grantaire asked him conversationally, taking a bite of a fruit tart.

“Oh, yes,” Combeferre dug into his bag, retrieving the book he had had sent to him from Paris and setting it on the table.

Grantaire took it immediately, looking it over, “Diderot?" he said, though a mouthful of food, "He has this already, Monsieur.”

“Well, I know that,” Combeferre said, suddenly indignant, “But his copy is fraying and the spine is weak, from last I saw. And this copy is from me; it is the sentiment, surely?”

“I suppose.” Grantaire said, passing it back to him nonchalantly, “He is somewhat attached to his copy though, I warn you.”

“We shall see. How are you so well acquainted with his books, anyhow?” Combeferre challenged, “You are hardly a revolutionary. I doubt you have even given his collection more than a cursory glance.”

Grantaire snorted, “Do you think me utterly uncultured? I am familiar with his idols, and I like to read. Where do you think his books came from, at any rate?”

“Enjolras brought them, did he not?”

“Ah, incorrect, I am afraid. _I_ sourced them – at great risk, might I add, given their contents - and made a wedding gift of them to him.” Grantaire said, taking Combeferre completely by surprise.

“I...why?”

Grantaire sighed, “Why ever do you think? Because I love him. He was miserable when we first came here and I wished for him to be happy. Gifting him a library of revolutionary literature appealed to the radical in him but prevented him from running back to Paris at the first opportunity. It satiated his appetite for such things. It was a compromise.”

Learning this Combeferre felt a strange rush of warmth towards Grantaire, an admiring fondness that came over him most unexpectedly. He had thought it was Grantaire who had smothered the flame in Enjolras' chest, Grantaire who had chased the idealism out of him.

Now he realised he was wrong - all Grantaire had done was love him.

Combeferre was snapped out of his thoughts by the children thundering back into the dining room, having finished opening their gifts. François was carrying a doll and Camille a wooden sabre, painted to look as though it were forged from real steel. Briefly Combeferre wondered if the paintwork had been Grantaire's doing.

“Father! Father, _look!_ I have a sabre!” Camille cried, displaying it proudly.

“My god, you do!” Grantaire said, feigning surprise, “A real one?”

“Yes,” Camille said adamantly.

“Do be careful with that, then,” Grantaire begged, holding up his hands as though in surrender, “Do not stoop to violence so quickly; only if the recipient is most deserving.”

“I will be. I told you I was old enough for a real one, father!” Camille said, holding his head up high.

“Indeed! How foolish of me; I ought have listened,” Grantaire said, giving him an apologetic little bow, hand on his heart, “Clearly good Saint Nicholas knows your nature better than I.”

Camille smiled smugly, turning to Combeferre and pointing the sword at his chest in an obvious threat, “Father told me you're the reason papa is in bed all the time,” he said, glaring; despite his young age and the fact his sabre was made of wood, Combeferre found himself bizarrely intimidated. There was something so deeply like Enjolras about the boy – the Enjolras he had been before the barricade had fallen, anyway.

“That is not what I said,” Grantaire put in, placing one hand on Camille's sword to lower it, “Monsieur Combeferre is a physician, Camille,” he said, “Your father is in bed for his health. We have talked about this.”

Camille was still staring at Combeferre, blue eyes sharp and suspicious, “If you are a doctor then you must know when my sister will be here?”

“A few weeks,” Combeferre told him, “Though it may not be a sister.”

“I think it will be. I hope so, at any rate. I already have a brother, I do not need another one! I would like it to be a girl.” Camille said precociously, “I want her to be here soon; I miss my father. We have not read together in months.” he complained.

“He will do so with you again soon, Camille,” Grantaire promised, ruffling the boy's curls, “Run along, now; I do think Marceline saved some nougat for you both in the kitchen...”

Combeferre watched, amused, as the boys chased each other into the kitchen, “Forgive me, but I did not imagine you to be particularly good with children,” he said, looking back at Grantaire.

“Ah, well, I have had plenty of practice,” Grantaire said, “I am a libertine, after all, and so well versed in childcare given that I have a veritable swarm of illegitimate offspring running about Paris...”

Combeferre stiffened, “What?”

Grantaire burst into laughter, patting him on the shoulder, “A jest, Combeferre,” he said, shaking his head, “My god you do make yourself an easy mark! Though I am flattered that you believe I was in high enough demand to father multiple other children.”

Combeferre sighed, exasperated, “You are exhausting,” he decided, setting down his glass, “I find your sense of humour confusing.”

“Ah, many do,” Grantaire said, “But apparently there is something about me that Enjolras finds appealing. Though I confess that when he first expressed desire towards me I wondered if he had perhaps received a heavy blow to the head on the barricade that had made him take leave of his senses.”

Combeferre smiled wryly, “I will not comment on that else I may risk offending you.”

“I know _you_ at least think he must have suffered an absence of wits to take me into his bed.”

“I'd rather not discuss you in Enjolras' bed at all,” Combeferre said frankly.

“Then I shall spare you those details,” Grantaire promised, raising his glass in a toast, “Let us instead enjoy the festivities – and the food.”

“I am surprised that your family celebrates this season,” Combeferre admitted, “Enjolras never much cared for it. His parents held lavish réveillons at their estate every year and he grew to hate such things. When we lived together he found every cause to ignore the day; he swore that the only altar he knelt at was the feet of lady liberty.”

“I could attest to Enjolras kneeling for other things, but I just promised to show you mercy in that regard.” Grantaire said, laughing as Combeferre let out a groan, “Truth be told I cannot say I was ever much fond of this time of year myself. It was never a pleasant experience in my household. My father claimed to be a god-fearing man; he was a strong believer in giving children the rod and a firm hand, though it seems to me that there is nothing godly about that. I remember one year I dared open my gifts before midnight mass. I was bruised for days!”

“Then why do you both subject yourself to this farce?” Combeferre asked, baffled.

“We have children, do we not? They deserve the joy we lack. When Camille became old enough to appreciate the festivities we agreed as one that we would celebrate it, however much we both detested it.”

Combeferre smiled slightly, “Then we ought count our blessings. And bring Enjolras his food, before he sees fit to have us both exiled from the house.”

Grantaire laughed, sipping his wine, “Agreed.”

 

-

 

January arrived with a vicious chill; the house turned cold, ice frosting on the windows like fine lace, and even with every fireplace in the house burning day and night Combeferre found he could not shake off the cold. It seemed to creep into even his bones, chilling him to his very core.

“How do you stand this?” He complained to Enjolras, draping a woollen coverlet over his legs as he sat in bed, “We are a little South of Paris here, how is it that it is so cold?”

“The city is crowded,” Enjolras reminded him, focused on the book in his lap, “The buildings are closer together, and so it is warmer.”

“Well in that case I do not think I am well suited for country life,” Combeferre remarked, smirking, “Are you warm enough?”

“As warm as I can be,” Enjolras said, suddenly grimacing with discomfort, “Urgh, this child does not wish to give me any respite at all. She moves more than her brothers ever did; I hold Grantaire entirely responsible for her difficult nature.”

Combeferre smiled sadly, sitting back down on the bed, “Well you shan't be troubled by it for much longer,” he said, “The child will be here any day now.”

“You say that as though I am not acutely aware,” Enjolras said with a humourless laugh, “I feel utterly rotten. I am ready for it to be over with.”

“Obviously I have no such experience with these things, but it cannot be comfortable...”

“An understatement, if ever I heard one,” Enjolras lay his head back with a sigh, staring up at the canopy of the bed, “I am never doing this again, I swear to it. I love my children, Combeferre, but I confess – if there were a way ensure I could not conceive, I would have none at all. There is not a trace of parental instinct in me."

"Is it too bold of me to ask what precautions you and Grantaire try to take?" Combeferre asked, "I know there are teas and tonics, but you would surely struggle to acquire them out here..."

Enjolras' face grew very red, "I...well, we..." he fiddled with the pages of his book, "Rather, he...withdraws at the crucial moment..."

"Ah," Combeferre said, flushing, "Well, that is...not always an effective method, Enjolras..."

"I had no clue," Enjolras said, deadpan, one hand rested upon his stomach, "Have you a better solution, doctor?"

“Well you are familiar with the effective nature of celibacy, but I do not think Grantaire would be especially pleased to be exiled from your bed,” Combeferre jested, raising his eyebrows.

Enjolras smirked, “A way _besides_ that,” he said, “And if Grantaire heard that that was your suggestion he would throttle you.”

Combeferre could not help but laugh, shaking his head, “Then I shall keep my mouth shut, for my own sake,” he agreed, “Are you nearly done with your books again?” he asked, gesturing to the book he was reading.

“Almost,” Enjolras said, closing it softly, “Though I am afraid I have been a terrible bookkeeper, my friend; I have written notes in the margins of half of them,” he confessed.

Combeferre felt his heart lift. He smiled, “That is excusable. What have you written?”

“Just my thoughts,” Enjolras said, “Nothing of much importance.”

“May I read them?”

“Of course.” he said, and then shifted awkwardly in the bed again, gritting his teeth, “Damn this child! It is a wonder I have not yet broken a rib!"

Combeferre frowned, picking up one of the books from Enjolras' nightstand, “Would you like some laudanum for the pain?” he offered.

“Did Marceline not threaten to shove the bottle down your throat if you offered me any more opium tinctures?”

“Yes – the stopper and all, if I remember correctly. She believes they do more harm than good, but I do not hold to that personally.” Combeferre said, “And at any rate, what Marceline does not know will not kill her. Do you want some?”

“What I want is to be out of confinement,” Enjolras said miserably, a wretched look on his face, “I am losing my mind in this godforsaken room! I did not do this with either of my sons; heaven above I even walked through most of my labours! I am not accustomed to captivity in such a way. I need to stretch my legs."

Combeferre wanted to point out that he had been as good as captive for the last eight years, but it did not feel appropriate; Enjolras' patience was already being tested by his condition, Combeferre did not think it wise to challenge his way of life if he wished to escape the room unscathed.

“We have been over this, Enjolras. It was necessary for the sake of the child. It is the best thing."

"And for me?" Enjolras said, voice full of resentment, "Is it best for me to be locked up in here as though I am contagious?"

"I am sorry. It is for your health too."

“If you insist.” Enjolras said coldly, turning over in the bed, “Will you leave me be, then? I must try to sleep.” he hesitated a moment, and then added, “Though I will take that laudanum, if you are still offering.”

 

-

 

Combeferre groaned, shielding his eyes; the glow of a candle had appeared suddenly in his room, hovering in front of him, rousing him from his sleep. It was late, though he could not be sure of the time, and there was such a chill in the air that his breath looked like smoke as it left his lips. 

“Monsieur! Get up!"

Marceline was standing at the foot of his bed with a candle, looking to be some menacing spectre in her nightdress, “Monsieur, wake up! You are needed immediately!”

Combeferre sat up, feeling clumsily for his spectacles on the nightstand, “What? What has happened...?”

“I need your assistance,” Marceline said, finding his medical bag for him and setting it down on the end of his bed, “Quickly – you must get up.”

“Enjolras is in labour...?” He guessed, rubbing his eyes and slipping on his glasses.

“Yes, yes – there is a problem. It is not going well. Hurry!"

Combeferre felt his heart practically stop. He flung the covers back and rose from the mattress, pulling on a robe, “What has happened?”

“He is near unconscious,” Marceline said, frantic, “I cannot rouse him, and he is too weak to push,"

Combeferre's stomach turned over, “I...I gave him a few drops of laudanum earlier, it is likely that...” he said, "He could not get to sleep..."

Marceline's expression dropped into one of outrage; “You absolute fool!” she said, “Laudanum?! I warned you!"

"But---"

"He is too heavily drugged to do what nature demands of him!" She hissed, "His body can only do so much without the aid of his mind."

“He was in discomfort; I had to do something for him,” Combeferre insisted; never before had his capabilities been brought into question.

“Well you ought have stayed your hand,” Marceline said, leading the way down the hallway.

Combeferre scowled, “Need I remind you, Mademoiselle, that I am a trained physician---”

“I know what you are!” Marceline snapped, stopping in her tracks to face him, “I know exactly what you are. You think I do not see many of your type, in my profession? You have received a fine education, paid for you by your family no doubt, and now you think you know what you are doing. This is a very small town and my family has lived here for generations. My mother taught me how to deliver babies, and her mother taught her. Tell me, how many children have you delivered, Monsieur?”

“I...” Combeferre blinked, taken aback, “Well none as of yet, but I was trained---”

“Training is not experience.”

Combeferre fell silent, feeling rather as though he rug had been pulled out from beneath his feet.

"I...forgive me, Mademoiselle," he said, "I did not mean any harm."

"I know you didn't," Marceline said, "But I ask that you listen to me and do as I tell you."

Combeferre swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding, "Very well," he said, “Where is Grantaire...?”

“He is with Monsieur Enjolras. He will not leave his side for all I've tried to persuade him away."

 _Of course_ , Combeferre thought, dreading the idea that he might have to be the one to make him leave. Marceline opened the door, stepping aside to allow him through. Enjolras was lying on his back in the bed, talking incoherently to himself, the laudanum still raging in his system. He was delirious, looking half-mad to any man who did not know better. Combeferre felt guilt gnawing at his insides like a trapped rat. 

“Enjolras?” He whispered, making his way over to him and setting down his bag, "Enjolras, can your hear me?"

Enjolras paused his rambling for a moment, turning his head on the pillow to look at him; his eyes were glassy, disoriented, but he smiled feebly with recognition when he saw him. 

“Combeferre...?"

“Yes. Yes, Enjolras, it is me,” Combeferre confirmed, sitting down in the chair beside the bed and reaching to take his hand, “I am here with you, Enjolras...”

He looked a state; his skin was clammy, and his usually pristine curls now more closely resembled straw, sticking up in all directions and clinging to his forehead.

"Am I dead?"

"No, certainly not," 

"Then you are a ghost?" Enjolras presumed.

"No," Combeferre said quietly, "I am alive, remember? I came back to you some months ago."

"Oh..." Enjolras' brows came together in confusion, "I do not recall." he said, "Forgive me. It is terribly bad form of me to forget such a thing."

"It is quite alright - you are not yourself at present."

“What is happening...?” He asked, voice slurred.

Combeferre took a cloth, soaking it in a bowl of water that Marceline had placed on the nightstand, “The child is making their debut, that is all.” he told him, dabbing at his brow, “You needn't worry. You have done this twice before."

“I feel sleepy, and heavy...so heavy all over...” Enjolras objected, voice little more than a weakened sigh, “It was not like this with the others...”

“I know.” Combeferre said, and his words made him want to weep; this was his fault. He glanced at Grantaire, keeping a vigil on Enjolras' other side, hands clasped tightly around his.

“What is wrong with him?” he demanded.

“I...” Combeferre felt his mouth go dry, “I gave him laudanum, to ease his pain,” he explained, unable to look him in the eye, “It has made him weak.”

“This is _your_ fault?” Grantaire said, looking suddenly as though he wanted to lunge across the bed and kill him.

“Yes,” Combeferre admitted, “But I am sure the effects will wear off soon, he---”

“Monsieur Combeferre!” Marceline cried from her place at the end of the bed; there was panic in her eyes and a tremor to her voice, and instantly Combeferre knew that something had gone horribly wrong.

“You will need to leave,” He said shortly to Grantaire, rolling up his sleeves and opening his medical bag. Grantaire stared at him, his eyes clouding with confusion.

“Leave?” he echoed, “No – no! I was here for the births of both of my sons, and I shall be here for this one too, I---”

“Do as I say.” Combeferre ordered, not wanting him to see the terror that was taking over him, “Go.”

Enjolras suddenly let out a terrible cry, and Grantaire turned to him, ignoring Combeferre entirely.

“It is alright,” he said, attempting desperately to soothe him. Enjolras seemed incapable of remembering his own name, let alone understanding what it was Grantaire was saying to him.

“It is alright, my love! I will be right here - you shall be alright, you have done this before---”

“Grantaire, please,” Combeferre said, seizing him by the arm, “You need to step outside.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a little near death experience to put things in perspective for you.

The baby was healthy, greeting the world with a head of fair curls and a set of lungs so powerful that Combeferre thought her cries would be heard from as far away as Paris. There was much of Enjolras in her, apparent even from birth; she made her appearance with an outraged air about her and a furious look upon her face, as though she considered the whole vulgar affair of her birth an insult upon her dignity.

Yes, the baby was healthy, and Marceline said that that was a blessing, but Combeferre could not bring himself to share her optimism. 

This was his fault - he had been too liberal with opiates, too arrogant, too unfamiliar with childbirth.

He watched numbly as Marceline scooped the child up into her arms, swaddling her in clean linens and disappearing from the room to take her to Grantaire.

 _Grantaire;_ the thought of facing him made Combeferre feel physically sick.

He removed his apron in an almost mechanical manner, folding it neatly and draping it carefully over the back of a chair before following the midwife out into the parlour. In spite of all the panic that had seized him earlier, he walked slowly now, as though in a trance. 

The house was dark, though Combeferre did not know the time. Rain lashed against the windows and a bitter wind rattled the doors outside. 

He found Grantaire sitting in the dark in the parlour, silent as Marceline went about lighting the hearth. The moment he saw Combeferre he rose to his feet, still cradling the baby awkwardly in his arms.

His face was pale and his eyes were wide, an obvious question dancing behind them.

“Enjolras?” he said immediately, “How is he? Marceline would not say...”

Combeferre swallowed hard, his mouth going dry. It felt as though he had forgotten how to speak.

“He was not conscious through most of the delivery. He is...not well,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Grantaire stared at him, lost, as though Combeferre had spoken in a language he did not comprehend. 

"I...I do not understand," he said, "What is wrong with him?”

“He has lost a great deal of blood,” Combeferre reported. 

“But he will recover?” – a plea, not a question - “Won't he?”

Combeferre felt his heart clench, “I do not know,” he admitted, looking down at his hands; they were shaking uncontrollably.

“He is weak.” he said, “I...I do not know if he will survive.”

“What? No - there is a mistake, surely,” Grantaire said, passing the baby back to Marceline, “He will be fine,” he insisted, “It is _Enjolras_ ,” he reminded him, as though that fact alone ought to make him invulnerable to harm.

“I am sorry,” Combeferre said, “I...I tried my best, I swear. I did all that I could, but I...” he closed his eyes, “Forgive me.”

For a moment he thought Grantaire had not heard him; a tense silence followed his words, heavy and as though the whole house were holding it's breath, and then suddenly Combeferre felt himself thrown up against the nearest wall, the air knocked from his lungs with the force. Grantaire had him by the collar of his nightshirt, gripping him so tightly his knuckles were turning white. 

“This is your fault!” he accused, “You did this! You! His brother, you claim? You are no brother to him – you are nought but a harbinger of death! You have been a curse on my family. You came here and _everything_ went wrong!”

Combeferre could not deny it - he had not the heart nor the strength, and in part he agreed. He hung his head, ready to accept whatever punishment Grantaire saw fit for his crimes.

“I know.” he said.

There was a moment where it seemed as though Grantaire wanted nothing more than to kill him - and the look in his eyes said that he contemplated it - but then he stepped back, releasing Combeferre. 

“ _Doctor,_ ” he spat, voice dripping with hatred, “You are no doctor. You are but a poor mockery of better educated men.”

With that he shouldered past him, storming away towards the bedroom. Combeferre lingered in the parlour for a moment, watching as Marceline paced back and forth, trying to hush the baby.

“You ought to go with him,” she said quietly, “He may need you.”

Combeferre wiped his eyes furiously, still trembling, “I am sorry. I failed.”

“He is still alive.” Marceline pointed out, “There is still hope. And she does not think you failed,” she added, glancing down at the baby, “She might have been lost too. You helped bring her safely into the world.”

Combeferre wanted to take comfort from that thought, but he could not – all he could think was that he had been blessed to find his dearest friend alive after eight years, only to kill him himself through his own ignorance. He may as well have shot him on the barricade. The thought left a foul taste in his mouth.

 

-

 

When he finally returned to the bedroom he found Grantaire at Enjolras' side, hunched up in a chair next to the bed. Enjolras lay still, so still that it was as though the life had already left him. The sheets were pulled up to his neck and he was sallow, almost grey, his forehead glistening with sweat. He turned his head on the pillow, eyes glazed.

“Grantaire...”

“Shh, it is alright,” Grantaire soothed, clasping his hand and holding it to his chest, “Be still. You must rest.”

“The child...?”

“She is fine.” Grantaire assured him, “Healthy and strong...”

“A daughter?”

“Yes.”

Enjolras managed a smile, “You were correct, then; a girl.” he said, “What a rare occurrence...”

Grantaire gave a pained laugh, kissing his hand, “Yes,” he said, “How unusual, that I should be right. She is lovely, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, and Combeferre recognised then that he was trying to keep him focused, “She has the most beautiful fair hair, like yours...”

“You did say you hoped the next one would look like me.” Enjolras said.

“I did. You will see for yourself soon enough,” Grantaire insisted, “You will be recovered in no time at all...”

Enjolras looked at him, his eyes scanning Grantaire's features, “You are scared,” he said, as though something was just then dawning on him, “Combeferre has told you the outlook is not good for me...” he guessed.

“Nonsense.” Grantaire hissed, “Do not be foolish. You shall be fine. I do not permit you to die, do you hear? Our children need you.” he blinked back tears, bowing his head so that Enjolras would not see, “ _I_ need you. You must get better. There is no question about it.”

“I will try,” Enjolras promised, “But do not hate me if I find I cannot oblige...”

“As though I ever would, you fool,” Grantaire said; it seemed as though he were barely holding himself together.

“Our daughter needs a name,” he said suddenly, changing the subject, “What shall we call her?”

“Marianne,” Enjolras said, “I like that name...”

“Of course,” Grantaire laughed mirthlessly, “Of course – _Marianne_. I ought to have guessed. You are still a revolutionary at heart, then?”

“I cannot renounce my ideals even now,” Enjolras confirmed, “For that I am sorry. But please – Marianne. Will you name her that for me?”

“It sounds appalling with my family name,” Grantaire said, “But yes. Of course, yes. But I pray, do not talk as though you will not live to meet her. You will recover. I know it.”

"I shall do my best."

"Good."

Enjolras gave a faint smile, closing his eyes again, “I want to sleep...” he said, his breathing starting to slow.

“And you can. But only if you swear to me that you will wake again,” Grantaire said, brushing damp curls out of his face, “Promise me, Enjolras...”

“I promise.”

Grantaire sat at his side until he was asleep, pressing a tender kiss to his lips and then leaning back in his seat.

“He has to live.” he whispered, a half-hearted acknowledgement that Combeferre was in the room with him. 

“He has to. He cannot die like this; it is not his way. Do you know that he nearly died when François was born?”

“I did not know that.” Combeferre said quietly.

“Well he did. He fell sick two days after the delivery; some terrible fever that had come upon him during the birth. It was like a nightmare.” he said, his eyes fixed on something only he seemed able to see, “He was pale, Combeferre. So pale that when I looked at him I kept thinking he was already dead; just like now. Just like this. I begged him not to die, Combeferre, but he was so weak. Shivering violently. Marceline told me he needed a doctor urgently – she said he would likely die, if not.”

He looked down, grimacing at the memory as though it caused him physical pain, “I told Enjolras this, of course, and he refused to see a doctor. He said, 'I will see no doctor besides Combeferre',” he scoffed, turning to look at him suddenly.

Combeferre felt a knot form in his stomach.

“He refused. I begged and begged, 'Please, Enjolras, let me go forth and fetch the doctor from town', and he told me 'no' every time. He said he would rather die a man than survive as a woman.” he shook his head, “I called him a stubborn, prideful fool.”

Combeferre looked down.

“Still he kept saying it – 'I will see no doctor besides Combeferre', like a mantra.” Grantaire tipped his head back to stare up at the ceiling, his eyes shining with tears.

“I went and prayed that night. Not to god, no; I prayed and pleaded that if there were an afterlife, that you might be able to spare a little of your time to tend to him. He knew you would be able to save him. He believed it, so entirely, and so I prayed for you, Combeferre.” he sighed, “And he survived. He did. And I swear it was down to his faith in you...”

“Grantaire---”

“If he dies now, I shall hold you personally responsible.” Grantaire said flatly. He rose to his feet, shoving roughly past him and leaving the room before Combeferre had a chance to speak.

 

-

 

Three days passed, and somehow, Enjolras clung to life. It was remarkable in Combeferre's opinion; he had the washed out pallor of a man already lost to death, pale even down to his lips, but he persevered as though to do otherwise was unthinkable. It seemed to Combeferre as though he had taken Grantaire's words to heart - he had not given him leave to die, and so stubbornly Enjolras refused to do so.

Had Death himself called upon the house in all his spectral glory Combeferre imagined Enjolras would have sent him away with a disdainful look and a wave of his hand. 

For three days he existed somewhere hazy between life and death, Grantaire sitting vigil at his side day and night and feeding him broth when he was able to stomach it.

As the three days stretched miraculously into four he had Grantaire bring the baby to him, settling her in his arms so that he could see her.

“She is sweet,” He said weakly, touching her small fingers gently with his own.

“I told you,” Grantaire said, huddling close to him, “She looks so like you; she is an angel, if ever I have seen one. I feel as though to gaze upon her should be blinding.”

Enjolras lay his head against Grantaire's shoulder, “Where are the boys?”

“They are being kept occupied.”

“Good. I do not want them to see me this way,” Enjolras said, “How is she being fed...?” he asked, glancing at the baby again, “Combeferre says that I am too weak to nurse her myself, and at any rate I confess I have not the inclination to do so..."

“Marceline went into town and found a wetnurse,” Grantaire explained, “She is discreet, I assure you. We told her that the fewer questions she asked the more she would be paid, and so she has said scarcely a word to us at all since coming into our employment.”

“Good...” Enjolras said, passing Marianne back to Grantaire, “Here, take her,” he said, “I wish to speak with Combeferre in private.”

Grantaire seemed reluctant – Combeferre could feel his hesitance from where he stood – but he did as Enjolras said, hushing Marianne as she began to cry.

“Very well. I shall be in the parlour if you should need me.” He said, pressing a kiss to Enjolras' forehead and shooting Combeferre a cold look as he passed him in the doorway.

The delicate friendship that had begun to form between them at Christmas had soured almost immediately with Enjolras' poor health, and it felt to Combeferre that they might never find common ground again. If Enjolras survived then Grantaire would forever consider Combeferre to be nothing more than a useless doctor who did little to help, and if Enjolras died...well, Combeferre was starting to think Grantaire might go so far as to kill him. In truth Combeferre would not even try to stop him if he did - if Enjolras died he would consider his own life to be fair compensation.

“Come and sit with me,” Enjolras said, gesturing to the now empty chair beside the bed, “Please?”

Combeferre did as he asked, feeling almost as though he were trespassing on sacred ground; it had been Grantaire's place for the last three days, and it felt wrong to sit there when he was in part responsible for Enjolras' fragile state.

“You look almost as sickly as I do,” Enjolras observed, “Are you troubled?”

“Of course I am troubled. I did this to you.”

“The last I was aware it was Grantaire who fathered Marianne – I am afraid I do not recall our tryst, my friend. I do not mean to insult your prowess but it must not have been particularly passionate if I have no recollection of it.” Enjolras joked feebly.

“You know to what I refer,” Combeferre said, “I gave you laudanum when I ought not have. It very nearly killed you.”

“I am still living, I believe,” Enjolras pointed out, “And whilst I still draw breath you are not to blame yourself. I forbid it. Childbed is dangerous whatever the circumstances.”

“But---”

“Consider it a lesson, Combeferre; you know now that labour pains and opiates do not make good bedfellows. Leave it at that.” Enjolras pleaded, reaching weakly to take his hand, “It was a mistake, that is all. I would see you make peace with that.”

“I shall try,” Combeferre promised, though he still could not look at him, “But Grantaire will not. If you die I do not doubt at all that he would murder me with his own hands.”

“He may be inclined to do so anyway, even if I recover...” Enjolras said, and his voice was suddenly quiet, “Combeferre, I have been giving things much thought these last few days...”

“What manner of things?”

“Of my place - where I belong.”

“And?”

“And this taste of death has made me keen for more noble things than family life." he said, "I have decided that if I live I shall go with you to Paris.”

The words took Combeferre completely by surprise, hitting him with all the force of a cannonball.

“I...what...?”

“I will go with you back to Paris,” Enjolras repeated, squeezing his hand, “When I am well enough, at least.”

“But your daughter---”

“She has a wetnurse,” Enjolras said dismissively, pushing aside the thought with almost unsettling ease, “I am not made for caring for children. If I am to die it will not be for such a common endeavour as childbirth.” he held his head high even as he sat in bed, something fierce coming back into him all at once, “Instead let me do right by my children the best way I know how; put a pen and ink in my hands again and let me bring hell upon those who would see them raised in a shackled France.”

Combeferre's heart was now leaping in his chest, erratic and elated and panicking all at once.

“Grantaire would never allow it---”

“I do not need Grantaire's consent to do as I please,” Enjolras said, hardening slightly, “He is not my keeper.”

Combeferre said nothing. His head was filled with questions – 'What about your family?' 'What about your marriage?' - but none of them left his lips. Selfishly he did not want to risk changing Enjolras' mind with such queries.

“Of course.” he said instead, beaming. He held Enjolras' hand a little tighter, bringing it to his lips.

“Paris has missed you, Enjolras.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points for anyone who understands the significance of the name Marianne.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, someone gets slapped in this chapter.

A month went by, and in that time Enjolras recovered completely. The colour had swiftly returned to his cheeks and to look upon him now no one would guess how intimate he had been with death only a short time ago; Combeferre was elated.

This confrontation with his own mortality only seemed to bring forth in Enjolras a renewed passion for politics, as though his miraculous recovery had served to confirm something he had always known; 'I did not die on the barricade and I did not die in childbed with any of my children. I am meant to live for some purpose,' he had told Combeferre one evening as they sat by the fire together, discussing when they could leave for Paris.

Combeferre was inclined to agree; several times death had taken a shot at Enjolras and each time it had missed, his friend coming away the victor. He was not one to put much stock into the idea of fate but even he had to concede that Enjolras had been incredibly fortunate. Frankly, Combeferre did not care if it was the work of destiny or sheer dumb luck.

 

 

-

 

Early one morning Combeferre woke before it was light outside, making his way to Enjolras' study to read and pen a letter to Courfeyrac; his mind was racing with all that had happened of late, and sleep had started to elude him.

He stopped dead in the doorway when he reached the study, finding that it was already occupied, a candle burning down to the wick on the bureau.

Grantaire was sitting in the chair by Enjolras' desk, slumped back with a bottle in one hand. He was wearing his coat and cap, having evidently just returned home from god-knows-where, and reeked so strongly of gin that Combeferre could smell it from the doorway. It made his eyes water.

“Combeferre.”

“Why are you awake so early?” Combeferre asked, startled.

“I never went to sleep,” Grantaire said, holding up the bottle in his hand in explanation, “So I am not up early at all. And I ought to ask you the same, at any rate. It is a strange hour for you to be creeping around my house, Monsieur.”

“I cannot sleep.”

“Of course you can't.” Grantaire said, taking a swig from the bottle, “Preoccupied with your plans for Paris?”

“Yes. I intend on writing to Courfeyrac about it.” Combeferre said, “I confess that Paris has been on my mind...”

“Well, perhaps you ought to discuss it with Enjolras.” Grantaire said scathingly, “I am sure he would not be opposed to you waking him for such an important conversation. You are apparently very welcome in his room, after all."

"I would not wake him for anything." Combeferre said calmly, "He still needs to rest."

"Indeed so - that is why I thought to be a good husband and not disturb him with my presence," Grantaire said, "I have spent this fine evening at the inn in town, lamenting my predicament."

“Your predicament?"

“Yes - for you see I am not a complete fool, Combeferre, for all that I say of myself. I have even been known to be quite clever when I put my mind to it; heaven knows I do not do so often enough, but then I am well renowned for my sloth."

"What is your point?" Combeferre asked bluntly. All of this rambling, this spinning of sentences - it was much more like that Grantaire that Combeferre recalled from 1832. He did not much like it.

Grantaire's brown eyes hardened, "I know that he is returning with you to Paris.” he said. 

Combeferre's heart stopped.

“He has told you?” he said. 

“No, not in any such words - but I have guessed.” Grantaire said, looking miserably down into the bottle, “And from your response I would wager I did so correctly.”

Combeferre swallowed hard, “He will be happier in Paris.” he reasoned, unable to hold his tongue any longer, “Do you not want for him to be happy?”

“Do not try to guilt me; of course I want Enjolras to be happy.” Grantaire scoffed, “But I also do not want him to throw down his life on some hopeless wall of old furniture again, as you are urging him to.”

“I am not urging him to do anything. It was his decision.”

“But you put the thought in his head nonetheless.” Grantaire said, “And now he is abandoning his children in pursuit of ill-fated ideals.”

“He is not made for family life.” Combeferre said, “You know it as I do. He is made for Paris, and for all of her accompanying politics. This life is wrong for him.”

“Do not speak to me as though he is a stranger to me!” Grantaire snapped, standing suddenly, “You forget that I have known him longer than you have!”

The accuracy of the words struck Combeferre hard in the chest, and for a moment he found he couldn't react. Grantaire was right. He had known Enjolras only three years before that June; Grantaire had been married to him for eight.

“You think that you know him better than I because you were so close,” Grantaire said, seething, “But you do not. You did not see him after the barricade fell. You know nothing of the person it turned him into.”

Combeferre felt his stomach turn over.

“He was a wreck after that June, Combeferre. Riddled with guilt and full of regret.” Grantaire was shaking now, “When we were staying in Paris he was living in hell. One afternoon I left to go to the market, and when I returned to our rooms I found him sat on the bed with a bottle from the local apothecary. Arsenic. I shall let you come to your own conclusions about what he intended to do with it. I had to talk it out of his hand.”

Combeferre stared at him, crushed, “I did not realise---”

“Of course you didn't. You have barely spoken to me since you arrived.” Grantaire accused, “You detest me – you do not respect that I have a life with Enjolras. You behave as though an envious child, and you insult me in my own home. I would be glad to see the back of you, were you not taking the love of my life with you when you leave.”

Combeferre stood there in silence for a moment, “I...I am sorry, I---”

“I wanted us to be friends, Combeferre,” Grantaire said, taking another mouthful of whatever was in his bottle. He swayed a little where he stood, his eyes red and somewhat unfocused.

“I respect you, Combeferre – or else, I used to – and Enjolras cares for you deeply. I wanted for things to be good between us. But we cannot continue like this, you must know that. The day Enjolras went into confinement you told me that we were united by our concern for him.” he frowned, “If that is true, then listen to what I am saying. If he returns to Paris with you, if you put him through it all again, it will kill him.”

Combeferre looked down, “It is his choice.” he pointed out, “I cannot keep Enjolras here any more than you can. He wants to go to Paris, and all I can do is accommodate that.”

“You could tell him no.” Grantaire protested, “You could say 'you have a responsibility here', you could say 'I cannot house you in Paris,' - you could say any number of things to convince him to stay, but you won't. You are selfish. And I suppose I cannot blame you for that – you have missed him. But I should like you to explain to my children why you are taking their father away from them.”

He left the room with that, removing his cap as he went, “Goodnight, Monsieur. Do not stay up too late writing your letters to Paris. You will need your rest for the journey back.”

Combeferre winced, watching him go.

 

-

 

It was a week later that Combeferre woke to a loud crash. He sat bolt upright in bed, still hearing the boom of cannonfire in his head, certain that he was caught in the throes of a terrible nightmare. It took him a moment to realise he was not asleep and that the clamour going on downstairs was real. He fumbled for his spectacles, pulling on a robe and venturing out into the hallway. He found Marceline there too, hastily trying to usher Camille back into his bedroom. She glanced at Combeferre, gesturing with a small nod of her head towards the stairs. Another crash.

Feeling somewhat sick at the thought of what he might find Combeferre made his way down the stairs, following the noise all the way into the dining room. He stopped when he reached the doorway, suddenly feeling rather like he ought not to have come downstairs after all. Enjolras and Grantaire were shouting at each other, stood ten feet apart with the table in between them like – well, like a barricade. It felt as though he had just walked onto a battlefield.

Grantaire was visibly drunk,  glassy-eyed and stumbling, and Enjolras looked as though he was out for his blood. It was as though the smell of wine on his husband had resurrected the part of him that had disdained Grantaire back in the Musain all those years ago.

“Go!” Grantaire yelled, throwing up his hands, “Go with him, back to Paris, like you have said you you will! Talk of it no longer – get yourself gone, if you are so determined to go! If you are going to drive a knife into my heart then I beg, do so quickly, and spare me this torment! I know you do not wish to be with me any more.”

“I never said any such thing!” Enjolras snarled back, “Do not think to put words in my mouth!”

“It is clear, Enjolras!” Grantaire shouted, “It is patently clear to anyone with eyes that you still belong to the revolution - and to Combeferre!”

Enjolras froze. Combeferre, upon hearing his name mentioned, considered slipping away before he was noticed.

“ _What_ are you implying?” Enjolras said, voice dangerously quiet.

“You know _exactly_ what I imply,” Grantaire accused, his eyes wild, “You two lived together, did you not? How am I to know you and him did not have some arrangement between you?”

“Like _what_?!”

“Use your imagination, I pray. You claimed that first night that I was your first lover, but how am I to know that for sure?”

“How _dare_ you?!”

“Admit to it!”

“I will not admit to something I have not done!” Enjolras was shaking with rage now, “And I cannot believe you would even suggest such a thing!”

“Can you not?” Grantaire let out a bitter laugh, “Do not treat me like a fool, Enjolras! I know I would never have been your first choice for a lover. I have been a crutch for you and little else!” he said coldly, “If you had not become pregnant with Camille I do not doubt that you would have left me and considered our dalliance nothing more than a smear upon your reputation!”

“That is not true and you know it! Like a fool I _loved_ you!” Enjolras screamed back at him.

“Loved?” Grantaire's eyes flashed, “But not still?”

“You know that I do! Do not twist my words!”

Grantaire shook his head, “You have been different from the moment Combeferre turned up on our doorstep!” he said, “Do not pretend otherwise! You are his, not mine, and still a damned revolutionary!”

“Perhaps I _am_ still a revolutionary. Perhaps it is in my blood and cannot be erased. Things need to change!” Enjolras said fiercely, now walking around the side of the table so that he was face to face with Grantaire, “Our children are growing up in this world – we cannot leave it in such a state of wreckage and misery!”

“Do not claim you do this out of any sense of duty to our family!”

“Fine! It is not! It is my duty to humanity!"

Grantaire scoffed, “Then go!” he said, his voice was hoarse from shouting, “I know you want to. Go, get yourself killed on another barricade for some impossible future! Leave your children. Leave _me_.” He curled his lip in disgust, “You probably wish it had been Marianne's life in peril rather than your own. How much easier it would be for you without a newborn to hinder your plans---”

What followed his words happened so quickly that Combeferre nearly missed it; Enjolras struck him, an open-palm across the cheek. It was hard enough that Combeferre heard the sound it made, and it left Grantaire's face burning red.

There was a moment of silence, Grantaire holding one hand to his face in surprise and Enjolras freezing, as though delayed in realising what it was he had done.

“I...I am sorry,” he stammered, “I did not mean to---”

“No, I am very sure you did,” Grantaire said, seeming to sober up immediately.

Enjolras looked panicked, “I...you may strike me back,” he offered, seemingly almost without thought, “To make us even.”

Grantaire looked more insulted by his words than the slap across the face, “Strike you back?” he echoed, taking a step back, “My god. We have been wed eight years and yet you do not know me at all, do you?"

“Grantaire---”

That was the point Combeferre decided he would have to intervene; he feared Enjolras would only do more damage if left alone.

“Grantaire, you need to sleep off your drink,” he said loudly, making his presence in the doorway known; they both turned to look at him, Grantaire falling into sullen silence and Enjolras turning red, clearly ashamed that there had been a witness to their argument - and to him striking Grantaire.

“Go to bed,” Combeferre said.

Grantaire gave him a disdainful look, picking up a bottle from the table and taking a pointed swig of it's contents, “I will leave the two of you alone,” he said, giving Combeferre a sarcastic bow, “He is yours again, Monsieur. You are welcome to him.”

With that he stormed away, slamming the door behind him so furiously that the room seemed to shake. The moment he was gone Enjolras sank to the floor, head in his hands, and started to sob. Combeferre did not know what to do; he had never seen Enjolras weeping so openly before. He crouched down beside him, pulling him into his arms, “Enjolras...”

“I hate him,” he said into Combeferre's chest, his voice choked.

“I am sure that is not true,” Combeferre sighed, stroking his hair, “You are angry.”

Enjolras did not argue, instead taking deep, shaky breaths, “My god - I struck him.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I am a brute. I have never before---I would never---It is not in my nature." he said, the anguish clear in his eyes, "I do not know what happened..."

“His words were cruel.” Combeferre said, “You were both in the wrong.”

“But I still struck him. He can say vicious things at times but he is a better man than his father, at least. And I cannot deny that I am just as bad; we are both vile to each other at times. It is why he does not drink...he gave it up, he was excellent, we stopped fighting. But now...”

“He is worried.” Combeferre murmured, taking Enjolras' hand, “I am sure, with time, this will pass and he will stop drinking so much...”

“Not if I go to Paris. It will get worse. How can I leave my children with a drunk?”

Combeferre wanted to point out that these were questions he ought to have asked himself before he decided to accompany him to Paris, but he could not. It would help no one.

“You do not have to come with me,” he reminded him reluctantly.

“I know – but I want to. I do. I just do not want him to hate me for it. I do love him, Combeferre. I know you struggle to believe it – that you think my marriage to him the result of necessity, or loneliness, or desperation. And it was, to begin with,” he admitted, “But I grew to love him. I still do.”

“I believe you.” Combeferre said, “Enjolras, you must think carefully about what is to happen next. I want you to come with me to Paris, but not if it will cause you pain to do so.”

Enjolras sat up a little, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, “No, I am set upon it.” he said, “I have decided that I want to go with you, and my heart feels lighter for it. But Grantaire was right about one matter, at least – I ought to stop talking about it and do it. Prolonging it is only causing more hardship.”

“I will arrange our transport to Paris tomorrow,” Combeferre said, “So that we may leave within the next week---”

“No. Sooner than that.” Enjolras decided, “I want to be gone by tomorrow. No later.”

“Very well,” Combeferre said, though he was not entirely sure an abrupt exit would help the situation - if anything it would only exacerbate it. If Grantaire thought the two of them embroiled in some torrid love affair then surely the two of them stealing away to Paris without any notice would only further convince him he was right. But Enjolras wanted to be gone, and Combeferre could deny him nothing.

He sighed, holding him close, “We will leave tomorrow.” he vowed, despite the sinking feeling in his stomach, “I promise.”

 

-

 

Grantaire did not emerge to bid them farewell when they left for Paris the next afternoon. Combeferre thought it was to be expected, given the circumstances, but he still felt pity stir in his gut when he saw the disappointment in Enjolras' face.

“Will he not come to say goodbye to me?” He asked Marceline weakly as she saw them off at the door.

“He is indisposed at present, Monsieur,” she said awkwardly, which Combeferre realised was a delicate way of saying that Grantaire was still drunk.

“He is?”

“Most likely. He left early this morning and went into town,” she told him, “I am not expecting him back until late.”

“Of course.” Enjolras looked down for a moment, and then straightened himself up to say his farewells to the children. He kissed them each on the forehead as Combeferre loaded their trunks onto the back of the carriage, hesitating a little when he got to Marianne.

“Be good, and look out for your siblings,” Enjolras said, turning to Camille, “Keep practicing with your reading and your handwriting, as we have been doing.”

“I will, papa,” Camille said, staring down at his feet, “I will miss you.”

“I will miss you too. But I will write to you whenever I can,” Enjolras said, “And if you continue with your work you can write to me too; you can ask Marceline and she will go into town to send it to me in Paris.”

“Can't I go with you?” Camille begged, looking up at him desperately, “Please, father? I want to see Paris.”

“No. I am sorry, but I have important business I need to attend to that cannot involve you...” Enjolras looked at François, tucked in close to Marceline's side. The small boy was clinging to the doll he had received for Christmas, sniffling quietly as though trying to hide his tears.

Enjolras knelt down, pulling him into his arms, “Oh François,” he sighed, stroking the boy's dark hair, “I promise you will hear from me soon. I will not be gone forever...”

“I don't want you to go at all,” François protested, his face buried in Enjolras' shoulder.

“I know.” Enjolras held him for a moment, closing his eyes. He kissed him once more and then stood, stepping back. It seemed to Combeferre that he wanted to make his goodbyes as swift as possible – he wondered briefly if he was having second thoughts, faced now with the reality of leaving his children.

If it were so he did not let it show for more than a moment, instead turning his attention to Marceline.

“Take good care of them,” he said, “Please.”

“You know that I will.” Marceline said simply, looking down at Marianne in her arms, “I love them as though they were my own.”

“I know.” Enjolras managed a small smile, kissing each of her cheeks in turn, and then joined Combeferre by the carriage.

“I'm ready,” he said, climbing inside without another word.

He did not look back when the carriage started to move, Combeferre noticed; he did not look back even once.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like dad skills to help sort someone out.

It was late in the day when they entered Paris, the sun starting to set in the distance. Enjolras had been silent and severe for the whole journey, concentrating on the book he was reading and barely speaking a word to him. Combeferre thought perhaps he was thinking of his family, maybe missing his children, maybe even missing Grantaire.

Whatever was on his mind he sat up straighter when the familiar rooftops and winding streets came into view, a smile finding it's way to his face immediately.

“We're here,” he breathed, eyes shining, “How I have missed this city.”

“Eight years is a long time to be away,” Combeferre said.

“It is. I never stopped loving it, though,” Enjolras said, a wistful edge to his voice, “It feels as though I am coming home.”

“You are,” Combeferre said, unable to hide his joy. Paris suddenly felt like Paris once more; the city had been an empty shell without Enjolras there. He embodied the very spirit of it.

 

-

 

When the carriage ground to a halt outside the building where Combeferre lived Enjolras was the first out of it, stepping out onto the cobbled street and breathing in the smell.

Paris had a perfume all her own, both foul and fragrant – a strange marriage of bakeries and the sewers, flower sellers and horses, steel and smoke and wood.

“It is just as I remember it,” Enjolras said, “To think that I forgot it! The country air is too clean.”

Combeferre unlocked the front door, steeping to one side to let Enjolras go first, “I hope you find this place to your liking.” he said, “It is not as pleasant as where we lived before, I admit; I rather miss it, at times, but it was hardly possible to remain there in the wake of everything.”

“It is wonderful,” Enjolras said simply, tipping the carriage driver generously as he set their trunks down in the hallway for them. Combeferre imagined Enjolras would have been happy living in a hovel, so long as that hovel stood firmly in the heart of Paris.

He took off his coat, hanging it by the door, and then turned to Combeferre expectantly and asked the inevitable question that he had been dreading.

“Where is Courfeyrac?”

“Around, I am sure,” Combeferre muttered, unwinding his scarf and then calling out into the darkened house;

“Courfeyrac?”

There was no response.

Enjolras cast him an uncertain look, “May he perhaps be out somewhere...?”

“No,” Combeferre sighed, “Do not worry, unfortunately I know where we shall find him,” he said regrettably, leading Enjolras down the hallway.

He let himself into Courfeyrac's bedroom without knocking, grimacing at the smell of sour wine that greeted them. The shutters were all closed, the curtains of the bed drawn, and the room looked like it had been ransacked. There were empty bottles lined up on the bureau and dirty clothes piled up on the floor.

He glanced at Enjolras at his side, seeing the horror in his face. He could not blame him; Enjolras had known that Courfeyrac had let himself go to the gutter, but knowing wasn't enough to prepare himself for the reality of it.

Combeferre marched over to the windows, throwing back the shutters so that the sunset flooded the room, and then turned to pull open the bed curtains.

There was a groan from beneath the sheets, a string of muttered curses, and then Courfeyrac emerged, his hair a mess and his eyes bloodshot.

“God almighty!” he cried, shielding his face with his arm, “Do you intend to blind me?”

“Enjolras is here.” Combeferre said flatly.

Courfeyrac squinted against the harsh light, lowering his arm and finally seeing Enjolras, standing to Combeferre's left.

“Enjolras? My god.” he said, “It has been so long.”

Momentarily Enjolras seemed to have been stripped of his voice, staring at Courfeyrac with abject disgust. He looked him over and then seemed to remember himself suddenly.

“Yes, I...it has been a long time,” he agreed, “You are...well, I hope?”

Courfeyrac snorted, sitting up in bed, “What do you think?” he said, gesturing to himself with mock grandeur, “Do I look well to you?”

“No.” Enjolras said honestly, “You look a wretch.”

Courfeyrac let out a bitter laugh, reaching for a small glass vial on his nightstand – Combeferre took it from him before he could consume it's contents.

“I thought 'wretch' was what appealed to you now, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac said, sinking back down on his pillow, “Or has Combeferre misinformed me?”

Enjolras, to his credit, gave little indication that he was insulted by the comment; his jaw clenched slightly and his hands curled into fists at his side for an instant, but then he relaxed, shaking his head.

“It pains me to see you this way.”

“It pains me to be this way,” Courfeyrac mumbled, running one hand through his curls, greasy and unwashed, “Believe me, I am as ashamed as you are. More so, in fact, for _I_ must _always_ be seen with myself.”

“You should take better care of yourself.”

“An easy thing to say, dear brother. My feelings are an affliction and my face is a hideous joke.”

“Your face is fine,” Enjolras insisted.

“Have your eyes stopped working?”

“Grapeshot is barbaric,” Enjolras conceded, “But you are alive, at least.”

“Only in the very most basic sense of the word.”

The look Enjolras gave him was disdainful, but Combeferre could see the sadness behind his eyes. He sighed, turning away as though he could no longer stand the sight of Courfeyrac in such a state, “I should go to my room,” he decided, “I need to unpack and rest.”

He went from the room before either of them could speak, closing the door behind him. Courfeyrac watched him go, shoulders sagging.

“He is not happy to see me,” he commented, looking at Combeferre, “But I am pleased to see him. He looks the same, too. Eight years and he has hardly aged a day! Are you quite sure he is not a ghost?”

“Quite sure,” Combeferre said, “Though he has had a few close calls.”

 

-

 

Dinner was late on account of Courfeyrac. He did not leave his room until well past eight in the evening, and when he did he had only managed to pull on trousers and a shirt.

Enjolras sat opposite him, lips pursed and visibly uncomfortable.

“So,” Courfeyrac said, filling his wine glass to the brim, “Tell me about your family life, Enjolras.”

“What is there to tell?”

“You have children, yes?”

“Yes.” Enjolras said, “Three.”

“Three!” Courfeyrac cried, leaning back in his chair, “My god! Does Grantaire not know how to avoid such things?” he snorted, sipping his wine, “He ought to take a lesson or two from me. _Three!_ ” he echoed, as though in amazement.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, “Are you sure you should be drinking?”

“Oh, leave me be! You always were a puritan,” Courfeyrac said, “I see you haven't changed in that regard. You are still the same Enjolras, then, even if you have acquired a husband and children.”

Combeferre cleared his throat, “Courfeyrac, did you receive the gift I sent to you for Christmas?” he asked, wanting to change the subject.

Courfeyrac shrugged, “I have the box,” he said, “I am afraid I have not gotten around to opening it yet.”

Combeferre wondered just how much of a mess Courfeyrac had been in his absence that he had not even been able to unbox his present. He felt sick; he should not have stayed away for so long, he realised.

“You ought to,” he said, “It is a new top hat; there is a fine hatter in the town where Enjolras lives.”

“Oh well now you have spoilt the surprise!” Courfeyrac complained, setting down his wine glass, “For shame, Combeferre!”

“It should hardly be a surprise,” Enjolras commented, voice tart, “It was a Christmas present – it is now _February_.”

“I have been busy,” Courfeyrac said.

“With _what_?”

“With things. Must you needle me already? I was pleased to see you earlier.”

Enjolras deflated a little, looking away, “I am sorry,” he said, “But I did not expect to find you so...”

“Destroyed?” Courfeyrac guessed, “I am sorry, Enjolras. God knows I did not want to be a disappointment to you.”

Enjolras took a bite of his food, as though to buy himself time to think.

“I know,” he said eventually, “Forgive me my harshness. It has been a difficult time for me, of late.”

“Combeferre said as such,” Courfeyrac said, “He told me you nearly died in childbirth.”

“Nearly.” Enjolras confirmed.

“But your children,” Courfeyrac pressed, “They are all healthy?”

“Oh, yes,” Enjolras nodded, “They are good. Camille – my eldest – wishes to visit Paris, one day.”

“Why did you not bring him along?”

“I did not think it appropriate.” Enjolras confessed, pushing around the food on his plate, “He belongs with his father, anyway.”

Courfeyrac did not argue, but he exchanged a look with Combeferre that Enjolras did not fail to notice.

“Grantaire and I are having difficulties,” he said. 'Difficulties' was a gracious way to put it, in Combeferre's opinion, but he held his tongue. This was not his business to discuss.

“Well you always did clash,” Courfeyrac remarked, “It does not surprise me that you continue to do so.”

Enjolras smiled wryly, “Some things are destined to always remain the same, I suppose.”

Courfeyrac reached across the table, taking his hand, “I have missed you terribly,” he said, “To think that you were dead was unbearable. It felt as though a part of me had been lost.”

Enjolras gripped his hand tightly, the hard expression on his face softening immediately, “I have missed you too.” he said.

They ate the rest of their meal in silence, and though Courfeyrac was still in a state of disarray and Enjolras was still noticeably taken aback by it the tension seemed to have been drained out of the room by their reconciliation.

Small mercies, Combeferre thought.

As he began to clear the plates when they were finished it occurred to him for the first time time that the three of them were back together; they were all older and different, but they were together again, under one roof, sharing one table.

The thought rekindled a warm flame in Combeferre's chest; they were three once more. Inwardly he vowed that he would never let them lose each other again.

 

-

 

When Combeferre left his bedroom the next morning he was stunned to find Courfeyrac sitting up in the parlour, dressed and washed despite the early hour.

He still looked a little worse for wear – his eyes were red, and his face unshaven – but it was easily the most put-together Combeferre had seen his dear friend in years. Even his cravat was tied, albeit not very neatly.

“Courfeyrac...?”

“Good morning, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said, looking almost as surprised as Combeferre did that he was out of bed, “Enjolras woke me,” he explained, “He came in at eight and opened all the shutters...”

“I did,” Enjolras confirmed as he entered the room, bringing with him fresh coffee and a plate of pastries and setting them down on the table, “Eat,” he urged Courfeyrac, turning to Combeferre.

“From now on you will ensure that Courfeyrac rises at a sociable hour,” he said firmly, “You will help him dress and make sure he washes and eats. There will be no more sleeping away the day for him, do you understand?”

“I...yes, of course...”

“Good. He must see people, and get the sun on his face. It is not a cure but it has not helped his meloncholia to languish in bed as he does.”

Combeferre nodded, wondering if Enjolras had learned these things from experience; he was married to Grantaire, after all.

“Courfeyrac, I intend to take a walk along the river later,” Enjolras said, turning to their friend, “You will be coming with me, I trust...?”

Courfeyrac nodded, still looking dumbstruck as he took a tentative bite of his pastry, “If you would like me to...”

“I would.”

“Of course, then...”

“Good.” Enjolras smiled, sitting down to join him for breakfast.

Combeferre was at a loss for words; this was new. Enjolras had always been a creature of habit, yes, but not all of those habits had been good – when they had lodged together Enjolras had gotten painfully little rest and ate rarely.

“I am a parent.” Enjolras reminded Combeferre, noticing him staring, “I've become accustomed to enforcing routine.”

“I see,” Combeferre said, looking at Courfeyrac again. He looked as though he was learning how to exist all over again, taking uncertain sips of his coffee and occasionally fiddling with his cravat.

“I opened your gift,” he told Combeferre suddenly, “It is delightful, and fits me perfectly.” he informed him, smiling cautiously, “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” Combeferre said, “I only hope you find cause to wear it.”

Courfeyrac cast a sidelong glance at Enjolras, “I think I will.” he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe Courfeyrac said Grantaire's pull out game was weak. Sorry y'all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was easily my favourite chapter to write to date.
> 
> Ft. Enjolras trying to pass as a heterosexual, Combeferre having confusing feelings and Courfeyrac asking some very inappropriate questions.

It was an uphill battle with Courfeyrac, but as the days crept into weeks Combeferre saw a gradual change. He was awake before noon each day, often dressed by ten and took regular meals with them both. He was starting, slowly, to become Courfeyrac once again.

One afternoon Enjolras had helped him to shave, and Combeferre had been unable to resist watching. Courfeyrac had always done it himself - taking great pride in his skill - but eight years of opium and too much drink had left him with a slight tremor and an unsteady hand that was hardly conducive to a close shave.

“How do you know how to do this, anyhow?” Courfeyrac said, as Enjolras carefully ran the razor along his jawline, “You do not exactly need to do it for yourself, after all.”

Enjolras shrugged, “Grantaire showed me how; he was tremendously brave, he volunteered himself as my test subject.”

“You had Grantaire sat defenseless before you and a razor in your hand and did not cut his throat?” Courfeyrac joked, raising his eyebrows, “My, what restraint you have developed, mon ami!”

Enjolras laughed, “It was tempting,” he said, taking care to avoid Courfeyrac's beloved sideburns, “But I am merciful.”

“Why, pray tell, did you want to learn how to shave?” Courfeyrac said, tilting his head to make it a little easier for him, “As I said, it is hardly a necessity for someone in your position.”

“I have picked up a great many new skills since 1832; I needed to keep my mind busy.”

“I am not entirely sure I want to know what other skills you have developed if Grantaire was involved.” Courfeyrac smirked.

“I have a razor in my hand.” Enjolras reminded him, a playful threat.

“Sorry.”

“You should be,” Enjolras said, amused. He passed Courfeyrac a cloth to wipe his face with, setting down the razor, “There. Done.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Courfeyrac said, dabbing at his cheeks. He hesitated for a moment when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, a strange look coming over him, as though he were seeing a ghost.

“My god,” he said quietly, “I dare say I look like me.”

Enjolras' smile faltered a little, “You have always looked like you.” he said softly.

“I am not so sure that is true.” Courfeyrac said, turning his head from side to side to admire his appearance, “It has taken years off me. If it were not for the grapeshot I might be handsome once more.”

Combeferre ached to hear him speak like that; he exchanged a look with Enjolras, and then cleared his throat, “Courfeyrac, a letter has arrived for you,” he said, holding up the folded paper that had been hand delivered by a young gamin that morning.

“Oh?”

“Yes. And if my memory serves me right the handwriting is Pontmercy's,”

“Oh!” Courfeyrac sprang from his chair, throwing the cloth over his shoulder – almost into Enjolras' face - and taking the letter from him.

He tore it open, eyes scanning the writing and a smile forming on his face.

“Marius and his dear wife are in the area,” he announced, “They would like to meet us for dinner, if we are available...”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows, “Shall we go?”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac said, and Combeferre felt his heart lift a little at his enthusiasm, “Combeferre, I have found an occasion to wear your top hat after all.”

 

-

 

It was past seven when they reached the restaurant; it was on the other side of Paris, far from where the Corinth had once stood, and Combeferre did not doubt that it's location was deliberate. Why risk opening up old wounds by venturing too close to bad memories?

Marius and Cosette were waiting inside when they got there, having already been seated at a table. They stood the moment they saw Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Cosette still very visibly pregnant.

“I thought the child was due at the end of February?” Combeferre said.

“Apparently they wish to be a little late,” Cosette informed him, laying one hand gently on her stomach, “I am sure they will arrive when they see fit. I would not want to rush them.”

“Of course not, but should you not be in confinement at this late stage?” Combeferre asked, unable to hide his concern. His recent experience with childbirth had left him uneasy with the subject.

Cosette shook her head, “The midwife who attends me does not believe confinement to be necessary,” she informed him, “She believes it is best for me and the child to continue life as normally as possible until the birth, and that confinement is an outdated practice.”

“Oh.” Combeferre said, feeling Enjolras shoot him a distinctly betrayed look, “Well, the condition suits you. You will be a wonderful mother, I am sure.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

“Oh look at you! You are absolutely aglow!” Courfeyrac said, pushing his way past Combeferre to kiss Cosette's cheeks, “An angel come to earth! How blessed! Your offspring will be a cherub too no doubt.”

“It is lovely to see you again,” she said, taking both his hands with her own, “It has been far too long since we have last done this.”

“Yes, well, we have been very busy,” Combeferre excused, “I was out of Paris for some time.”

“Sweet Cosette I do not believe you have met our dear friend, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, gesturing to him, “He is visiting Paris for a while. Marius knows him well, do you not, my friend?”

Marius smiled from ear to ear, lighting up when he saw Enjolras stood behind Courfeyrac, “My god!” he said, “You are not dead!”

“Not that I am aware of, no,” Enjolras said, "Though not for a lack of trying on Death's part."

Marius beamed, shaking Enjolras' hand firmly. He looked as though he would have gone in for faire la bise himself had he thought Enjolras amenable to it.

“I am so pleased to see you,” he said, looking like he might burst from joy.

“And I you. I am glad you are keeping well,” Enjolras said, glancing at Cosette, “And that you have a lovely wife and a child on the way.”

Cosette seemed to find Enjolras delightful, something which came as no surprise to Combeferre; for all his perceived coldness Enjolras could be incredibly charming. He kissed her hand like a gentleman but called her 'citizen Cosette', something which she apparently found quite a pleasing novelty, and in no time at all she was calling him 'friend'.

They took their seats and ordered their meals, and soon conversation was steered back to the upcoming birth of their first child.

"I confess I am thoroughly excited for you both," Courfeyrac said, "I pray, let us know as soon as the child arrives!"

"We will," Marius promised, "It should be any day now."

“Ah, wonderful. Will you name it for me, if it is a boy?” Courfeyrac asked, shameless.

“We had planned on naming a boy for Cosette's father,” Marius said, “But we shall certainly consider it for a middle name...” he said, looking to Cosette as though for her consent. She gave a small nod, smiling.

“Of course.”

“Ah, bless you both! I would be honoured. Somebody here forgot to name _either_ of his sons for me!” Courfeyrac said, slinging one arm around Enjolras' shoulders, “Can you believe the cheek of it? Brother, hah!”

“You have children, Enjolras?” Marius said, eyes widening.

Enjolras blanched, “Oh, uh, yes...two boys and a girl.”

Marius beamed, “My goodness! Oh, how lovely!” he said, elated, “What a surprise life is! Forgive me - I had never taken you for the marrying sort.”

“Yes, well...things do happen,” Enjolras murmured, “People change, and circumstances with them...”

“Well I am overjoyed for you.” Marius said earnestly.

“What is your dear wife like?” Cosette asked.

Enjolras turned even more pale, swallowing hard, “My wife? Uh...” he looked to Combeferre and Courfeyrac for help, sheer panic in his eyes that, admittedly, Combeferre could not help but find amusing.

“Go on, Enjolras – do tell them!” Courfeyrac said, smirking slightly and nudging him.

Enjolras glared daggers at him for a moment, cheeks red, and then turned back to Marius and Cosette, waiting expectantly to hear of this mysterious woman who had apparently tamed Enjolras' heart.

“Well, ah, she is very...sweet,” he said, “And charming, of course. The usual sort of traits one might find appealing in a partner. Very...womanly.”

Combeferre nearly choked on his drink; Courfeyrac gave him a firm thump on the back, grinning from ear to ear.

Enjolras glanced at Combeferre again, pleading for him to step in and rescue him from embarrassment.

“Oh yes,” Combeferre said quickly, coughing slightly and setting down his glass, “Yes, she is a delight; I have had the honour of meeting her. Lovely dark curls and eyes. Full of wit and fire – just the sort of woman you might imagine for Enjolras, I suppose...”

“And an excellent bosom!” Courfeyrac put in, raising his glass as though in a toast.

Enjolras put his head in his hands.

 

-

 

“Very womanly?” Courfeyrac cried as the three of them left the restaurant arm in arm, “Very womanly! Goodness, Enjolras – I know that you are of a somewhat Greek persuasion, but for heaven's sake could you not try a _little_ harder than that?”

“I did not know what to say! It was sprung upon me without warning!” Enjolras argued, throwing up his hands in frustration, “And what of you? 'An excellent bosom'? Where is your shame?”

“If I am to invent a wife for you she will be a great beauty, mon ami!”

“Now you sound as though you covet her!” Enjolras accused, though he was starting to smile; Combeferre could see the corners of his lips twitching as he spoke.

“God forbid they ever meet my children! With Camille's curls they shall surely think him yours and my wife a terribly fallen woman!”

“Nonsense! Your wife is a fair and candid creature, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac said, “That said, she certainly did not complain when I called upon her in your absence and---”

“That is my _wife_ you are talking about!” Enjolras said, swatting him lightly across the back of the head and knocking off his top hat.

There was a beat of silence, and then suddenly all three of them were laughing, Courfeyrac doubled up in the street holding his stomach as he attempted to retrieve his top hat. It had been so long since Combeferre had seen Courfeyrac laugh like this – so openly, so brightly, that laugh that could make your heart feel full. It was a miracle, he thought.

“Oh come now, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac said, supporting himself on Combeferre as he tried to gather his wits, “It is hardly our fault you are so disinterested in the fairer sex! Your poor wife needs somebody to keep her bed warm, and I gladly accept the responsibility---”

“You are incorrigible!” Enjolras said, grinning, “I should duel you for her honour,”

“As though you would win!”

Combeferre chuckled, shaking his head, “You are both as bad as each other.”

 

-

 

They were slow to get home, taking a detour along the Seine together and continuing their folly; when they finally did get back to the house they headed straight for the parlour, Courfeyrac insisting upon a nightcap despite the hour.

“I promise that I shall be good and drink very little,” he swore, finding a bottle of port in the drinks cabinet, “But I am not ready to retire to bed yet; I feel more myself tonight that I have in years, and I wish to celebrate our reuinion properly!”

Combeferre could hardly disagree with that.

The next few hours found them sitting together, recounting their lives before June 1832 with a sort of bittersweet fondness.

“Do you recall that time when I brought that lovely redhead to the Musain with me?” Courfeyrac said, “And the moment she saw you she forgot I even existed!”

Enjolras blushed, smirking, “Yes,” he said, “I did not know what to do about it! I fear she would have been woefully disappointed if I had taken her up on her offer.”

Courfeyrac snickered, “Maybe a little,” he agreed, “Oh! And remember Combeferre, with that box of human bones?”

“Oh lord, how could I forget?” Enjolras cried, “I was horrified - I though he had seen fit to murder one of his patients, and was about to ask me to help him conceal it!”

“It was for school!” Combeferre argued, “I was told to make a thorough study of them!”

“But you didn't tell me that,” Enjolras said, fighting back laughter, “You just brought them home and set them down in the study. I remember you just picked the skull up out of the box and set it down on the desk - I felt my heart try to leave my body.”

Combeferre grinned, “You did look more pale than usual.” he said, “I was worried I might have another body on my hands at any moment. But I have to ask, would you have helped me to hide them if it _were_ one of my more troublesome patients?”

“I am ashamed to say of course I would have.”

Combeferre chuckled, “Then thank you, I suppose.”

“God, how I have missed this!” Courfeyrac said, “Things have changed so much. You must tell me more of your marriage, Enjolras!” he encouraged.

“My imaginary one, or my real one?”

“Your real one, of course! And of your marriage bed, too,” Courfeyrac said, raising one eyebrow.

“I must not!” Enjolras laughed, “That is for me to know and you to wonder endlessly about!”

Courfeyrac let out a pitiful whine, “Oh please! You must understand my curiosity – last I saw you you were celibate and chaste, and now I find you married and with children! I am rightly fascinated as to what brought about such a change in you!”

“My celibacy was more a matter of political and personal choice than a lack of wanting,” Enjolras said awkwardly, cheeks slowly turning red, “That is all you need know.”

“Oh come now, we are brothers, do not be bashful!” Courfeyrac said, grinning, “At least answer me this, then; is Grantaire a good lover?”

Enjolras flushed, looking down; Combeferre rather hoped he did not answer, for it was not something he necessarily cared to know.

“Well, what do you suppose?” he said, face scarlet, “I would not have ended up with three children by him if he were not a good lover. I do not have anything to compare to, of course, but I have certainly never been left displeased...”

Courfeyrac let out a joyous sound, “Aha! I am so glad! Oh, mon ami, I never imagined you would fall into bed with someone! I am pleased to know that you are having enjoyable sex - it is one of the great pleasures in life. I have some books you ought to read, if you care to---”

“Courfeyrac!” Combeferre cried, “Please!”

“What? It is a mere suggestion,” Courfeyrac shrugged, sipping his port, “Some of them are very educational. I am simply saying you ought to glance them over – that way when you return to your quiet little home you might be able to please him with some new tricks, courtesy of Paris!”

Enjolras looked aghast, “I believe I shall pass on that opportunity,” he said.

“Well, the offer remains. I have a copy of 'Thérèse Philosophe' in my room that I would be pleased to lend to you.”

“Grateful though I am I will have to decline.”

“Of course, forgive me - how foolish I am! You wed a libertine, you do not need my books. I am sure Grantaire has a copy of his own!”

“My god, will you let up?” Enjolras said, seemingly torn between being mortified and amused, “Will you stop with this if I assure you that Grantaire has given me a very thorough education on such things?”

Combeferre groaned, head in his hands, “Enough of this, please! I do not care to know!”

Courfeyrac laughed, giving him a sympathetic pat on the back, “Oh come now, Combeferre! You cannot tell me you are not at least a little curious!”

“I am certainly not. I do not wish to know anything about Grantaire's prowess in the bedroom, thank you. I have no intention of going to bed with him myself, and so it is of little interest to me.”

Enjolras shook his head, though Combeferre could see him fighting not to laugh, “Can we move on from this, Courfeyrac?”

“Of course, of course,” Courfeyrac said, pouring him another glass of port, “Here, have this; it is good for you. I have never seen you drunk but I fully intend to.”

 

-

 

The three of them stayed up until the small hours, debating politics so fervently that to Combeferre it felt as though the eight years had never passed. One nightcap became two, and then three – a rarity for Enjolras he explained, looking a little worse for wear by the third glass of port.

“I have missed this,” he slurred, leaning forward on the table; his hair was a state, his cravat hanging loose around his neck.

“As have I,” Combeferre said, “But perhaps you should sleep now, Enjolras; I believe you have had a little too much port.”

Enjolras nodded, patting his arm affectionately, “I believe you may be correct,” he said, pushing himself to his feet using the table. He swayed a little, and then smiled, “Goodnight, my dearest friends,” he said, giving them both a little salute and then stumbling off towards his room, supporting himself against the wall as he went.

Courfeyrac watched him go, eyes bright, “Ah, it feels almost as though things are back to as they were before,” he said, “I have missed him so terribly. Can you believe he has a family? I never would have imagined it from him.”

“Yes, it was a surprise to me as well,” Combeferre said, “His children are a delight – precocious and as difficult as you would imagine Enjolras' offspring to be, but a delight nonetheless.”

“I would bet so. I hope I get the honour of meeting them.”

“Perhaps,” Combeferre said, sipping his drink, “Though I fear his family life is suffering from his decision to come to Paris...”

“Ah, yes,” Courfeyrac frowned, “He mentioned he was having some problems with Grantaire.”

“You could call it that,” Combeferre sighed, moving his seat so that he was closer to Courfeyrac now that Enjolras had taken his leave, “They have been fighting a lot, of late.”

“A pity. It would have been nice to see Grantaire, too; true I was never particularly close to him, but he is a familiar face all the same.”

Combeferre smiled, laying his hand on Courfeyrac's, “Maybe they will make peace soon.” he said.

“I hope so.” Courfeyrac said, voice suddenly soft, “Love is a delicate matter. I regret the last eight years terribly in that regard,” he murmured, “I would have liked a family of my own. Seeing Enjolras and learning of his children tastes bittersweet.”

“It is not too late for such things,” Combeferre reassured him, “You are only thirty.”

“But who would take me now?” Courfeyrac said, touching one hand almost unconsciously to his cheek.

“You are still handsome,” Combeferre told him, feeling something strange stirring in his chest.

“You truly think so?”

“I do.”

Courfeyrac turned his hand over to link their fingers together, “Thank you...”

Suddenly, without warning, Courfeyrac's lips were on his, warm and gentle and tasting a little of port. The kiss was ungainly, almost amateur - not at all how Combeferre had imagined Courfeyrac might kiss. Had he imagined such things? Of course not.

Almost as soon as Combeferre had processed what was happening it was over, Courfeyrac leaning back with flushed cheeks.

“Forgive me, mon ami,” he said, laughing a little awkwardly, “I do think I've had too much port. All of this talk of Enjolras with his Greek preferences has rather muddled me, I believe,” he cleared his throat, loosening his cravat, “I should attend to my bed – it is terribly lonely without me, I am sure...”

“Oh, uh...yes, of course...” Combeferre said, still stunned. His heart was beating so wildly in his chest that it felt as though it were waging war against his ribs.

Courfeyrac hastily got to his feet, picking his top hat up off the table where it had been sitting, “Goodnight.” he said, not looking at him.

“Goodnight.” Combeferre said, breathless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Ya'el; you once said you imagined Courfeyrac owning a copy of 'Thérèse Philosophe', so here you go. This is for you, mon ami.


	10. Chapter 10

Combeferre was unable to sleep that night, staring up at the canopy of his bed in the dark and trying to make sense of what had happened between him and Courfeyrac. Because, as absurd as the idea was, it had happened – Courfeyrac had kissed him.

This was a startlingly new development. For over eleven years they had known each other, treated each other as dearest friends, brothers in arms – and then this had happened. He tried to reason that it was the result of too much port, but Combeferre could not ignore that he had seen Courfeyrac drunk many times before and never once tasted his lips.

That Courfeyrac might kiss him as a lover would made no sense – and the feeling it had left stirring in Combeferre's chest made even less sense than that.

 

-

 

Enjolras was sitting at the dining table when he ventured out of his room the next morning; he was a state, evidently suffering the effects of last night's drinks and his hair desperately trying to escape it's ribbon. He groaned, lifting his head off the table when he saw Combeferre, “Good morning...”

“Good morning. Not feeling your best?”

“Have pity and do not mock me,” Enjolras begged, rubbing his temple, “I am not one for drinking at the best of times and this reminds me why.”

Combeferre smiled wryly, sitting down beside him, “Where is Courfeyrac...?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.

Enjolras poured him some coffee, sighing, “He went to the bakery to fetch breakfast for us,” he said, “Can you believe it? A few weeks ago it was a task to drag him out of bed and now it is he running the errands and me being the wretch.”

“One night of excess will hardly be your downfall, Enjolras.”

Enjolras waved it away, “If you say so. I have no idea how Grantaire ever made such a regular ordeal of it. I feel horrendous. There is nought sociable about this.”

“Practice?” Combeferre supposed, taking the coffee from Enjolras gratefully.

“Perhaps.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, brow furrowing as though in concern.

“Is something troubling you?” Combeferre asked.

“Besides the horrendous pounding in my head?”

“Yes, besides that.”

“No. Not really. Only...I have not yet received any letters from home,” Enjolras said quietly, not meeting Combeferre's gaze, “It has been several weeks and I have heard nothing. I would have thought that Camille...” he trailed off, shaking his head, “It matters very little; I am sure I will get word from them eventually.”

“You miss your family?”

“Of course I do.”

“You regret leaving?”

“Not even slightly.”

Combeferre smiled sadly, “You should write to them first, then.” he reasoned.

“I should like to,” Enjolras said, “But I do not know what to say, in truth. Do I dare write to Grantaire? Or only to the children, and make the error of failing to address him at all?”

“It is a complicated issue,” Combeferre agreed, “Perhaps write to Marceline, then? You may inquire after your family without having to speak with Grantaire.”

“Perhaps.”

“Let me know what you decide to do. Anyway, Enjolras, I...I would like to ask your advice on a sensitive matter,” Combeferre started, unsure where to begin.

Enjolras set down his coffee, raising his eyebrows, “Regarding what?”

“Regarding Courfeyrac.”

“What about him?” Enjolras frowned, “I thought he was making excellent progress...”

“He is,” Combeferre said, “And it is not with regards to his state of mind. At least, not in that sense...” he cleared his throat, looking down, “You see, last night, after you retired to bed...he kissed me.”

“Pardon?”

“He kissed me.”

Enjolras blinked once, “Oh,” he said, and Combeferre could not help but think his reaction to be woefully lacking considering the nature of what he had just divulged.

“Is that a problem?” he asked eventually.

“I...well, no, but---Enjolras, he _kissed_ me,” Combeferre reiterated, convinced that Enjolras must have misheard him.

Enjolras shrugged, “And?”

“ _And?!_ ”

“I have kissed you before."

“Not like _that_ ,” Combeferre said, frantic, “It was no sort of brotherly kiss, Enjolras! It was more akin to how one might kiss a lover...”

“And you would like _my_ advice on what to do about that?”

“Yes.”

Enjolras smiled wryly, “Do you truly think I am in an adequate position to advise you on romantic affairs?” he pointed out, “Grantaire and I are separated, and one would wager it is by more than just distance at this point. I am waiting on an inevitable letter from a lawyer, demanding divorce.”

“He would never do that.” Combeferre said, waving the thought away, “The man is enamoured with you, and at any rate, divorce is expensive.”

“You are so sure?”

“Of course. He loves you.”

“Love can sour.” Enjolras reminded him darkly, “And I have given him plenty of cause to want to see me gone for good."

“He would never drag you through any legal proceedings that would see you called a woman,” Combeferre said, “I do not know him particularly well, no, but I can tell that much.”

Enjolras seemed satisfied with that, shrugging it off, “Tell me then - how can I help you with your delicate matter?”

“You are a man who...finds himself inclined towards men, in that manner,” Combeferre began slowly, careful to pick his words wisely.

“I am.” Enjolras confirmed, arching one eyebrow, “And?”

“And...I wish to know how exactly you came to that conclusion,” Combeferre said, “How it occurred to you that you were...well...”

“Of a 'somewhat Greek persuasion'?” Enjolras smirked, quoting Courfeyrac.

“Well, yes.”

“I simply did.” Enjolras said, “I looked upon beautiful women as the rest of my peers did but did not see the appeal. I saw some men that I found to be pleasing to look at, but it never truly occurred to me that I was inclined towards them until I was with Grantaire. We were all but forced into close contact with each other by circumstance, and such closeness made it very clear to me very quickly that I desired him." he flushed a little as he spoke, "Why? Do you think yourself fond of men?”

“I cannot be, surely - I have courted women.” Combeferre said, not looking at him, “Not many, granted, but still...”

“Grantaire is as equally inclined towards women as he is men.” Enjolras told him, “He jests that it is because he did not have the looks to be picky where lovers were concerned, but I know it is simply his nature. It is not uncommon.” he said, reaching to take his hand, “Combeferre, do you ask me these things because you wish to know if you are attracted to Courfeyrac?”

Combeferre felt his mouth go dry. He did not know why; even if that was the case - which wasn't to say that it was - then it was not something of which to feel ashamed. He accepted Enjolras unusual preferences and all, and his situation was _far_ more taboo than his own. In Paris no one particularly cared if two men took up together as lovers – it was whispered about, of course, and certain doors might be closed to you, but there were few other repercussions for it, especially among the radical circles in which Combeferre moved.

“I...suppose,” he confessed.

Enjolras gave him an almost pitying smile, so sympathetic that Combeferre was almost insulted by it, “My friend, if you need to ask me this then I am afraid the answer is already very much apparent.” he said.

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“If you did not wish to kiss him again you would already know it.”

Combeferre stared at him, shaken by his words, “I...I suppose...”

Enjolras patted his hand once, going back to his coffee, “I hope you are quick to come to whatever conclusion you come to.” he said.

At that exact moment Courfeyrac returned from the bakery, a basket on his arm and a smile on his face. Combeferre wondered if he even remembered what had happened the night before. If he did he certainly did not let it show.

“Ah, you're awake,” he said, setting the food down on the table.

“Yes,” Combeferre said, as Courfeyrac began to divide up the food, “Though I did not sleep especially well.”

“Ah - too much port?”

“Rather. Poor Enjolras is suffering far worse than me though, are you not?” Combeferre said, looking to Enjolras.

“I will surely recover.” Enjolras said, helping himself to some pastries.

“Good – I have some errands I should like to run today. Would you join me?” Combeferre asked; it was true that he had things he needed to do, but he could not deny that a large part of his eagerness to start the day was spurred by the desire to escape from Courfeyrac and the strange feelings now born of being in his presence.

Enjolras took a bite of a tart, looking between Combeferre and Courfeyrac as though trying the gauge whatever was between them.

“I suppose.”

 

-

 

They finished breakfast quickly and left the house, Enjolras accompanying him with a somewhat dissatisfied look on his face.

“I swear, if I am to endure the two of you dancing around each other like that for the rest of my visit...” he sniffed, adjusting the lapels of his coat, “I will about lose my wits.”

“I suppose now you know how it felt for me to stay with you and Grantaire,” Combeferre said under his breath, receiving a sharp swat on the shoulder for the comment.

“As though it was even half so bad! Where are we destined for, anyway?” Enjolras said, linking his arm with his, “You did not specify what any of your errands were.”

“I must stop in at a local printer,” Combeferre told him, “There is something there that I must collect.”

“Something for your clinic?”

“Ah, yes,” Combeferre lied, “That shall suffice.”

Enjolras gave him a mystified look, but did not question it, instead falling silent at his side.

He slowed a little as they passed a few shops, coming to an abrupt stop outside a small toyshop; there was a wooden flintlock on a stand in the window, painted intricately to resemble the real thing as closely as possible.

“Camille would love that,” he remarked, a pained look suddenly coming over him, “I did not want to get it into his head that he ought to have possession of a gun, but I know he would love it...”

“You should get it for him.” Combeferre suggested, “He would like it if you sent him a gift from Paris, would he not?”

Enjolras did not need further encouragement; he released Combeferre's arm and disappeared into the shop to purchase it. Combeferre watched through the window, feeling suddenly rather guilty. It was a misplaced feeling, he knew – Enjolras had come to Paris of his own volition – but he could not ignore it.

The look on Enjolras' face had said everything it needed to; he missed his children, perhaps far more than he had anticipated missing them. Silently Combeferre prayed he would receive a letter from Camille soon – if he did not Combeferre feared that the pain of separation might grow unbearable, and that Enjolras might return home.

As he thought this Enjolras emerged from the shop, a box tucked under one arm that Combeferre assumed held the toy flintlock, “I am glad we came by this way. Camille will like this very much.” he decided brightly, and the very thought seemed to lift his spirits.

 

-

 

They reached the printer's shop a short while later, Combeferre checking that they were not being observed before they slipped inside.

“Is there something you have not told me about these errands?” Enjolras said, one eyebrow raised.

“Of course not.”

“I suppose you are being tremendously secretive for the sheer enjoyment of it, then?” he said dryly.

“Hush,” Combeferre said, ringing the bell on the counter.

The printer - a stout middle-aged man already starting to grey – appeared out of the back room a few moments later, face lighting up with recognition when he noticed Combeferre.

“Ah, Monsieur Combeferre,” he said, giving him a little nod, “I gather you are here to pick up the pages for your medical textbook...”

“Yes,” Combeferre said, giving him a pointed look, “I trust they came out well?”

“Oh yes, very well,” the man said, gesturing with a slight tilt of his head towards the back room, “Why do you not come and see for yourself?” his eyes went to Enjolras, narrowing slightly, “And your friend, of course.”

Combeferre turned to Enjolras; “Wait here,” he said sternly.

"I am not a dog," Enjolras complained.

"I know - but this is private business." Combeferre said, before following the printer into the back room.

He watched the older man pry open one of the floorboards in the middle of the room, retrieving a parcel from beneath it and passing it over to him.

“Here,” he said gruffly, “When you need more, you know where I can be found.”

Combeferre stuffed the parcel into a tear in the lining of his coat, handing over a few francs for his trouble.

“Citizen,” he said, and then turned to take his leave, passing Enjolras in the doorway, “Come on, then – I am done here.”

Enjolras caught up to him outside, looking somewhat affronted at being left out of whatever had happened in the printing shop, “Pages for your medical textbook?” he said skeptically.

“Yes. Of course.”

“I was not aware you were putting together a medical textbook.”

“It is not to be published. It is for my own benefit, but I wished for it to be professionally printed.”

“I see...” Enjolras said, noticeably dubious, “Odd, though, that you take such care to keep those pages hidden.”

“I value privacy.” Combeferre said, clearing his throat, “Anyhow, come – would you like to take lunch with me? We are close to a particularly favourite bistro of mine.”

“Lead the way.”

 

-

 

The bistro was not far from the Musain – so near, in fact, that Enjolras slowed a little as they approached it. He looked down as they walked, as though he remembered the cobbles like old friends.

“We are close to---”

“I know.”

Enjolras swallowed hard, “You make a habit of visiting this part of the city, then?” he said, looking warily at Combeferre, “Why?”

“Good food?” Combeferre said, “They serve excellent onion soup.”

“Obviously,” Enjolras said with a mirthless laugh, “There could not _possibly_ be some ulterior motive at work here...” he remarked.

“Of course not,” Combeferre said, holding the door open for him as they reached the bistro - a small, crooked building that smelled strongly of tobacco smoke.

“Ah, Enjolras – I would like to introduce you to some people,” Combeferre said, steering him over to a table at the back, where two young men seated together. Combeferre had come to know them both well; one with auburn curls, tied back with ribbon, and the other with slick black hair that came to his shoulders, and keen, sharp eyes.

He had known he would find them both here - he had planned for it, as a matter of fact.

“Citizen Combeferre!” the redhead said, outstretching one arm in welcome as he saw them, “My god, how good to see you! Where have you been of late? We rather thought you had disappeared for good!”

“I was visiting a friend outside of Paris,” Combeferre explained, gesturing to Enjolras, “A friend who has graciously agreed to come here with me. This is Enjolras; we have known each other for many years.”

“Enjolras,” The other man echoed, exchanging a look with his companion, “Is this the chief of which you spoke, Combeferre?”

Combeferre noticed Enjolras immediately stiffen at his side.

“Yes,” Combeferre said, laying one hand gently on Enjolras' shoulder to calm him, “This is him.”

The redhead smiled, outstretching his hand, “A delight to meet you, in that case,” he said.

“Enjolras, this is Claudel,” he said, as Enjolras shook the man's hand, “And Renaud,” he added, nodding to the dark-haired man, “They studied medicine alongside me.”

“It is nice to meet you.” Enjolras said, shooting Combeferre a suspicious look.

“Has this anything to do with your earlier errands?” he demanded, lowering his voice.

“Well, yes,” Combeferre said, “I shall not deny it.”

Enjolras bristled, “If this is what I believe it is---”

“Enjolras, please,” Combeferre pleaded, “Just hear them out. They are good men, with righteous hearts and noble intentions.”

“So were all the other boys that died at the barricades.” Enjolras whispered, “Or have you forgotten them so easily? I wished to come back to Paris, to make change where I could – but I did not agree to fight.”

Combeferre swallowed hard, “Things will be different this time.” he said, pulling the bundle he had collected from the printer out of his coat, “Just listen, I beg.”

Enjolras pursed his lips but did not protest, instead taking a seat at the table opposite Renaud.

“Here,” Combeferre said, setting down the papers, “There are one hundred flyers here.”

Claudel took them immediately, stashing them in his satchel.

“Thank you,” he said, glancing at Enjolras, “We have a printer in with us,” he informed him.

“Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting him,” Enjolras said bluntly, turning to Combeferre, “Medical textbooks?” he said dryly.

“He is very discreet,” Claudel continued, “We are planning on distributing these around Paris.” he said, taking one of the papers from the bag and sliding it across the table to Enjolras.

“You may keep that, citizen,” he said.

Combeferre saw Enjolras hesitate, eyeing the piece of paper as though he thought it might lunge to bite him, but then ultimately his curiosity overcame him. He picked it up, looking it over with a disdainful air.

Finally, he wrinkled his nose, “Well, this line isn't very good,” he said, pointing to it, “And this paragraph here is rather disjointed, and does not make any new points – and I know for a fact that _this_ is untrue,” he shook his head, “You do not want to draw people in with falseness, that makes you as dishonest as what you are fighting against. You ought not have had this printed without proofreading – I am sure you have wasted a good deal of money.”

He set it down matter-of-factly, looking at them both, “It is very good in places, but it still needs a fair amount of work.” he told them, leaving both Claudel and Renaud stunned.

“I...I worked on this for hours,” Renaud said, gripping the edge of the table tightly; briefly Combeferre was worried he might come to verbal blows with Enjolras on the matter, or worse still, throw himself across the table to fight him.

“Wait now,” Claudel advised, placing one hand on his friend's arm as though to stay him, “This man has done this before, remember.”

“Yes, and failed at it,”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, “There was naught wrong with my writings.” he said defensively.

“It is true,” Combeferre put in quickly, “Enjolras' rhetoric brought many to our cause. We were unsuccessful, yes, but he brought us more numbers than we would have had without him. He has a fine way with words.”

Renaud settled a little, still looking indignant, “Very well,” he muttered, eyeing Enjolras warily, “Then what improvements would you so humbly suggest?”

“Give me a pen and some ink,” Enjolras ordered, holding out one hand expectantly; Claudel immediately began rummaging through his bag to do so.

He passed him the pen and a small pot of ink, watching eagerly as Enjolras began to scratch out lines and write alterations in the margins. Combeferre smiled, his heart feeling light in his chest; he recognised that astute look of concentration, that thoughtful bite of his lip.

It was going exactly as he had hoped.

He spent a good twenty minutes on it, ignoring the others whenever they tried to hurry him and then finally, when satisfied with the wording, pushed it back across the table to the two men.

Renaud and Claudel huddled together, reading over Enjolras' notes and muttering quietly to each other. Finally, Renaud gave a reluctant nod, “This _is_ better...” he admitted, though he appeared unhappy about it.

Claudel laughed, clapping, “Bravo, citizen!” he said, “Never have I heard this one concede as such before!”

Enjolras smirked, “I have merely had a lot of practice,” he said, “It was my whole life, before 1832.”

“And what of after it?”

Enjolras shrugged, “I was busy with my family,” he said, “But I am pleased to find myself back in Paris.”

“And we are equally as pleased to have you here,” Claudel said, taking his hand with both his own, “And grateful for your support. Combeferre, you have brought us a fine gift!” he jested.

Combeferre smiled, “I did not exaggerate when I told you of him,” he said.

Enjolras looked to him, frowning, “What have you been saying of me?”

“I was merely reminiscing, that is all...”

“And your recent letters,” Renaud reminded him, “Informing us of your desire to bring him to Paris?”

Combeferre swallowed hard, “That too...”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Combeferre did not need to wonder what he was thinking.

The four of them took their lunch together, discussing their politics among themselves – and occasionally disagreeing, as Combeferre found Enjolras was prone to do so with almost anyone to whom he spoke – and then when they were done he and Enjolras pulled on their coats and bid Claudel and Renaud farewell.

 

-

 

It was growing dark when they left the bistro, arm in arm and huddled into their scarves.

“This was your plan all along.” Enjolras guessed as they walked, his breath like smoke on the cold air, “To bring me out to Paris and introduce me to those men. You knew that I would find myself involved with plans for revolution again.”

Combeferre grimaced, bracing himself for Enjolras' inevitable anger, “I am sorry,” he said, “But your talents should not go to waste, and---”

“I am grateful.” Enjolras said shortly, taking Combeferre by surprise.

Enjolras clearly noticed the confused look on his face, because he shrugged it off as nothing, “I enjoy politics,” he said, “And those ridiculous men were setting themselves up for disaster with half of what they'd written; that Renaud ought to stick to sawing off limbs and sewing up wounds. Words are not his forte.”

“They aren't,” Combeferre agreed, “But I was not brave enough to take him to task about it, unlike you.”

Enjolras laughed, “I have never been one to avoid confrontation.” he said, “But I tell you, Combeferre, if my words see me dragged to the guillotine I will be pulling you along with me.” he said, half in jest and half, Combeferre was sure, in honesty.

 

-

 

When they returned home the two of them immediately retreated to the study. Claudel had provided them with the other flyers they planned to put out, hoping that Enjolras might look them over and make improvements where he saw fit. It seemed to Combeferre that Enjolras had been craving such a task, for he had lit up when asked about it, and upon arriving home had instantly settled down to work, as industrious as Combeferre remembered.

They had been seated for no more than ten minutes when Courfeyrac burst suddenly into the room, glowing with joy.

“Marius and Cosette's child has been born!” he announced, brandishing the note he had just received at the door, “A strong little girl! She and Cosette are both in good health.”

Combeferre smiled, “That is wonderful,” he said, setting down his pen, “Do send them our regards.”

“I will, I will---but that is not all!” Courfeyrac said, beaming brightly, “They intend to make me her godfather!”

Combeferre grinned, “A fine choice, on their part,” he said.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac said, breathless with excitement. They locked eyes for a moment, and Combeferre felt his heart leap erratically. There was a look in his eyes that he could not mistake, something that made Combeferre suddenly intensely aware that Courfeyrac did indeed recall their kiss.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, turning to their friend, “Is that not fine news?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said from the desk, still focused on his work. He had fallen suddenly very silent at the announcement, not even glancing up from what he was doing. Combeferre had a feeling he knew why.

“Are you not pleased for them?” Courfeyrac asked, seemingly insulted on Marius' behalf.

“Of course.” Enjolras said dismissively, still not looking up, “It is excellent news - but I am busy. Leave me be.”

Courfeyrac frowned, looking to Combeferre as though for explanation. He said nothing; it was not his place.

Courfeyrac scoffed, clearly dissatisfied with his silence, and then turned away, “Very well. I shall have a gamin send them a card with our well-wishes,” he said as he left, “Including yours, Enjolras.”

Combeferre watched him go, his heart finding a comfortable rhythm once more. He turned to Enjolras, still engrossed in his work.

“Enjolras...”

“What?” Enjolras said, voice tart.

“Are you quite alright?”

“Yes. Why would I not be?”

“You greeted the news of Pontmercy's daughter coldly.” Combeferre remarked.

Enjolras continued with what he was writing, “I abandoned my children.” he said, as though it was only now dawning on him, “My daughter is two months old now, and I am here, in Paris,” he said, “I know it is my own doing, but forgive me if I cannot share in their joy. I do not want to be reminded. Now leave me be, as I asked of Courfeyrac. I would like to review Renaud and Claudel's writings.”

Combeferre wanted to say more, wanted to assure Enjolras that he had done what he had for the greater good – but no words came to him.

He thought of Enjolras' family back home, and of Grantaire, trying to cope in his absence. He wondered if Camille waited eagerly for a letter saying that Enjolras would be returning, wondered if his newborn daughter would think Enjolras a stranger if he went back to her, and the guilt that had gnawed at his insides earlier came creeping back in.

He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and joined Enjolras at the desk.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is being the 19th century equivalent of 'if you have to google 'am I gay' you're probably gay.'


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre is a good friend but damn can he be dense at times: a case study.

They were permitted to visit Marius and his wife two weeks later, when Cosette had recovered from the birth. Courfeyrac ushered them out of the house and into a carriage offensively early in the morning, eager to see the child at the first opportunity.

Marius had left the home of his grandfather a few years back, he and Cosette using her dowry to rent their own fine lodgings on the other side of the Seine.

“I cannot wait to meet my dear god-daughter!” Courfeyrac said merrily, sitting opposite Combeferre and Enjolras as the carriage rolled along, “I am sure she is an angel come to earth, just like her sweet mother!”

“I am sure she is,” Combeferre agreed.

“You could have been Marianne's godfather,” Enjolras remarked under his breath, as though envious that this baby he had not yet met had already claimed such a firm place in Courfeyrac's heart over his own daughter.

“I did not think you prescribed to such things, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, adjusting the lapels of his waistcoat as though he thought he might need to make a good impression upon the newborn.

“I would if it would please you.”

“That is touching, truly, but it matters not,” Courfeyrac said, “Make me the godfather to your next child.”

Enjolras stiffened, “There will be no more.” he said firmly.

“Oh? You are so sure! Are you to have poor Grantaire castrated?”

Enjolras kicked his ankle from across the carriage, face red, “Do not make fun.”

“I am sorry, my friend, I cannot help myself. I am in too light a mood for my own good, it seems,” Courfeyrac shrugged, “Do I look presentable to you both?”

“Of course.” Enjolras scoffed.

“Combeferre?”

Combeferre felt his face turn suddenly very red, “Oh, yes,” he said, clearing his throat a little awkwardly, “You look more than presentable. Very dashing.”

Courfeyrac gave him a sly smile, tilting his head, “Is something the matter?” he asked, exchanging an almost knowing look with Enjolras.

“I am fine,” Combeferre said.

“Combeferre is just feeling a little queer this morning,” Enjolras said, trying not to smirk, “He may even be ill, for all we know. Poor dear.”

Combeferre shot him a hard look; it seemed that Enjolras was content with Courfeyrac's teasing so long as it was not directed at him.

Courfeyrac sniggered to himself, leaning to look out of the window at the street.

 

-

 

It was Marius himself who greeted them at the door, looking equal parts exhausted and overjoyed. “You made it!” he cried, embracing Courfeyrac tightly when he saw him, “I am so pleased to see you!”

“I am honoured to be here,” Courfeyrac said, kissing his cheeks, “Dear Cosette is well, I hope?”

“Yes, yes – she is fairing better than I, actually,” Marius laughed, “One would never know what she so recently endured! She was out of bed and walking about mere hours after the child was born, can you believe?”

“How excellent,” Enjolras commented, looking somewhat sour to hear it.

“And the babe?” Courfeyrac pressed, “She is well?”

“Oh yes, very,” Marius said, “Strong and healthy.”

“What have you named her?”

“We have not settled on her name yet,” Marius admitted, ears turning pink, “But when we do, you shall be the first to know.” he promised, “Come, you all should meet her.”

 

-

 

Cosette, it seemed, was one of those rare people who remained untouched by any of the trials of life – despite the ordeal of childbirth (for in Combeferre's experience there was no more appropriate word to describe it) and a two week old infant she was as radiant and fresh-faced as ever, glowing like the sun as she sat in the nursery rocking the child's cradle.

“Oh lovely Cosette!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, rushing over to embrace her, “I am so glad you are well!”

“Very,” Cosette said, beaming, “Though I feel as though my heart might burst of joy!”

“Ah, well it had best not burst too promptly,” Courfeyrac jested, placing a kiss on either cheek, “Marius and your little cherub need you in fine health.” with that he turned to look into the cradle, letting out a sound that Combeferre had never heard before.

“My god!” he said, holding one hand to his chest, “She is sublime!”

“She is,” Cosette said, lifting the baby into her arms to that Combeferre and Enjolras could see her too. The child was small and pink-faced, dressed in an oversized white dress and lace mopcap. She was sweet, with tiny fingers and long eyelashes.

“She is beautiful,” Combeferre said, “A credit to you both.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Cosette smiled, “She is a delight. I remember very little of my mother, but my papa said she had sunlight for hair, and look,” she pulled back the little girl's mopcap, revealing a head of soft golden hair beneath it.

“Would you look at that! A halo for an angel!” Courfeyrac decreed, clapping, “May I hold her, if it is not to impertinent of me to ask?”

“Of course; you are her godfather,” Cosette reminded him, carefully passing the child over to him. Combeferre could not help but be warmed by the sight – a bittersweet feeling, he thought, as Courfeyrac cooed and fawned over the infant. Had the events of 1832 not happened Courfeyrac might have had a family of his own by now, Combeferre realised. He had always been in high demand, and it was not too far-fetched to imagine he might have married and had children were it not for that June.

It seemed almost unfair – he had been robbed of something he would have excelled at. In Combeferre's brutal opinion Courfeyrac would have been far more fitted to the role of father than Enjolras ever would be.

As he thought of this he turned to look at his friend, who had barely said a word since they had arrived. Enjolras stood stiff and unemotional at his side, hands folded behind his back.

Their eyes met for a moment, and fleetingly Combeferre thought he saw sadness behind them.

“The baby is lovely, is she not?” he prompted.

“Oh, yes,” Enjolras nodded, “Quite lovely.” he agreed.

“Quite lovely! You are blind, Monsieur! She is wonderful!” Coufeyrac said from where he was holding the small child to his chest, looking as though he might soon be reduced to tears, “My goddaughter! I am so honoured, truly.”

“You were a clear choice,” Marius said, “It could have been no one but you...”

He turned then to Enjolras, still cold and severe, apparently unable to see how visibly uncomfortable he looked.

“I cannot believe my fortune,” he said to Enjolras, grinning, “Is it always so wonderful, with children?”

Enjolras barely reacted, “I...not always so,” he said quietly, “They can be difficult at times, especially when they are older.”

“But worth it, I am sure,” Marius said, patting Enjolras' arm, “I would love the honour of meeting your children one day. I am sure they are delightful.”

“Yes.” Enjolras said, eyes now fixed on the small baby in Courfeyrac's arms, “They are.” he said. He straightened himself up suddenly, giving Marius a curt nod, “If you will excuse me, I have some business that needs attending to – Combeferre, will you be joining me?”

Combeferre nodded, “Of course...”

“I will catch up with you both later,” Courfeyrac said, still focused on his goddaughter.

 

-

 

It was only once outside and in the carriage that Combeferre noticed Enjolras wiping furiously at his eyes with his cravat. It occurred to Combeferre then that perhaps this visit had been poorly timed - seeing the baby had no doubt reminded him of his own. After all she had the same blonde curls and was only a little older than Marius and Cosette's daughter.

“Enjolras,” he said, touching his arm gently, “Are you alright?”

“Of course I am.” Enjolras snapped, hunching up his shoulders and jerking his arm away, “Leave me be. I am perfectly fine.”

Combeferre fell silent on the matter; if Enjolras did not want to speak on it then he would not push him to. He rarely allowed himself to cry – even before 1832 he had been too proud to allow himself such displays of perceived weakness – and Combeferre doubted he wanted an audience to it.

“I spoke to Claudel earlier,” He said instead, wanting to break the silence, “He and Renaud would like to introduce you to some other like-minded young men.”

“That is good,” Enjolras said, voice distorted from crying, “When?”

“Tonight – there is a cafe where they all meet several times a week.”

“Of course there is,” Enjolras whispered, closing his eyes, “Of course there is a cafe where they meet.”

“Will you come?”

“Against my better judgement.” Enjolras said simply.

“Good. I will have a gamin send word to Claudel when we get home.” Combeferre said, “They will be pleased to have you there.”

“I am glad they consider me a good ally.”

“You are quite possibly the best.”

Enjolras wept the rest of the way back to the house, doing so facing the window as though he thought he might be able to hide his tears. Combeferre did not comment.

He had gathered himself together by the time they got inside, acting as though it had never happened.

“What time will we be meeting the others?” He asked, removing his coat at the door.

“Around eight,” Combeferre told him.

“Good,” Enjolras said, disappearing down the hallway towards his room,“That shall give me time to ready myself and finish with my work.”

 

-

 

It was growing dark outside when there was a frenzied knock at the front door; it was a young man, red-faced and leather-gloved, brandishing a piece of folded paper.

“An urgent note, Monsieur,” he said.

Immediately Combeferre's mind went to Claudel and Renaud, but then he saw the horse behind him in the street, snorting and restless from a hard gallop, and he realised that this messenger could not have come from Paris.

“Who is it for?”

“I am instructed to give it to Monsieur Enjolras,” The man said, breathless, “It is of grave importance that he receives it, Monsieur.”

Combeferre's heart dropped like a stone, “I...of course,” he said, “He is here, I shall take it to him,” he vowed, handing the man a few francs, “Have a safe ride back, Monsieur.”

The rider thanked him and was gone, leaving Combeferre standing in the doorway with the letter.

It was Grantaire's handwriting, Combeferre recognised.

Dreading what it might contain he made his way to Enjolras' room, finding him working at his desk, the room illuminated by a single candle.

“This lighting must surely strain your eyes,” he said.

“I am used to it.” Enjolras insisted, not looking up from his writing.

“An urgent letter has arrived for you,” Combeferre said quietly, setting it down on the desk in front of him.

Enjolras' face lost colour, “That is Grantaire's hand,” he said, staring at it.

“I thought as much.” Combeferre murmured.

Enjolras took a deep breath, picking it up and breaking the seal. He read it in silence, Combeferre unable to help lingering a few feet away.

He saw Enjolras' jaw clench and his hands start to shake. Briefly Combeferre worried he had been wrong about Grantaire after all, and that the letter demanded a divorce. But that made no sense – divorce was not such a pressing demand as to require so urgent a note.

“Enjolras...?” He dared, “What has happened...?”

“Camille is sick,” Enjolras said, setting down the letter, “He is very, very sick. The physician does not know if he...” he trailed off, closing his eyes.

He got suddenly to his feet, hurriedly starting to gather his things up off the table, “I have to leave.”

“What? No---I am sure Grantaire shall keep you informed of his condition,” Combeferre said, “At least come with me to the meeting first, and then you can---”

Enjolras whirled to face him, blue eyes full of fear and guilt, “My son is gravely ill, Combeferre.” he said, as though convinced that Combeferre had misunderstood him, “I have to go to him. Immediately. There is no question to it.”

“But---”

“I may have found more of my old self of late than I intended to, but there are certain things about me that have changed beyond return.” Enjolras said, “I _love_ my children, Combeferre, and I need to be there for my son.” he looked at him defiantly, “And if you are any kind of brother to me you will not dare try to stop me.”

Combeferre stared, taken aback, and then nodded; it was all he could do. Words eluded him. Enjolras returned the nod and then disappeared to start packing, “Arrange transport for me immediately,” he called behind him, “I need to be gone within the hour.”

 

-

 

Combeferre succeeded in finding him a carriage at short notice, helping Enjolras up into it as he left the house, a single bag of belongings on his shoulder.

“Will you return when Camille is well?” he asked.

“I shall,” he promised, kissing Combeferre's cheek, “Farewell, my friend.”

“Goodbye,” Combeferre sighed, “And a safe journey.”

Enjolras nodded, “I will write to you at the first chance,” he vowed, “And Combeferre – do speak with Courfeyrac. I hope to find the situation between you resolved upon my return.” he said, leaning back into the carriage and hammering his fist against the door, “Quickly now!” he called to the driver, “With haste!”

 

-

 

It was late when Courfeyrac returned from visiting Marius; Combeferre met him at the door, stomach feeling as though it was in knots.

“You were gone a while,” he said.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac smiled, “Marius and Cosette insisted that I stayed for dinner,” he explained, “And I could hardly turn the offer down, given the honour they have bestowed upon me.”

“A well deserved honour,” Combeferre said, “And one you are well suited to.”

“You flatter me, Monsieur,” Courfeyrac joked, removing his coat, “Your face is rather red.”

Combeferre flushed even more at the observation, looking down at his feet, “Courfeyrac – I feel that we ought to talk.”

“Of what?” Courfeyrac asked innocently.

“Of that night.”

“Oh.” Courfeyrac murmured, busying himself with hanging up his coat, “I see.”

“We cannot go on as though it did not happen,” Combeferre reasoned, “Please...”

“I am sorry,” Courfeyrac said, “About that evening. I do not know what came over me, I swear. It was certainly not my wish that you be made uncomfortable by any actions of mine...”

“I was not made uncomfortable.” Combeferre said, heart starting to race once more.

Courfeyrac froze.

“In fact,” Combeferre continued carefully, “I find, to my surprise, that I was...rather amenable to it...”

At that Courfeyrac turned to face him, his eyes wide, “Oh?”

“Yes...” Combeferre fiddled nervously with his spectacles, “It was...pleasant.”

“Pleasant.” Courfeyrac stepped closer to him, looking as though he were trying to read his face for clues, “And how would you feel about it if I were to do the same again?”

Combeferre felt his heart stutter.

“I would certainly not have any complaints about it.” he whispered.

Courfeyrac gave a slight smile, and then, almost uncertainly, took hold of the lapels of Combeferre's waistcoat. There was a tentative pause, and Combeferre had a brief moment in which he was able to appreciate that their dynamic was about to be forever changed, and then their lips met.

It was less cautious and clumsy than the last time – Courfeyrac, apparently emboldened by Combeferre's words, pulling him close so that his body was flush against his.

“You have had male lovers before?” Combeferre asked, breaking the kiss momentarily.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac said, lips still lingering close to his, “Discreetly, of course,” he smirked.

“Good,” Combeferre decided, “That means you can show me what I ought to do.” he said, kissing him fiercely on the lips and pushing him up against the nearest wall.

Courfeyrac laughed, reaching to divest Combeferre of his waistcoat, “Well, you know, as I told Enjolras – I have a lot of interesting literature on such matters. It is all in my room, of course...”

Combeferre shook his head, amused, and allowed Courfeyrac to lead him down the hallway towards his bedroom by his cravat.

 

-

 

“I have been waiting for that for eleven years!” Courfeyrac said, laying breathless at Combeferre's side.

Combeferre rolled over to face him, looking at him as though it was the first time he was truly seeing him, “Truly?” he said, “That long?”

“Oh yes,” Courfeyrac laughed, “I found you most agreeable from the off, but other things rather took precedent over matters of the heart,” he said, “And then after the barricades I thought myself quite unappealing to anyone.”

Combeferre furrowed his brow, “You have always been handsome,” he said, “I told you as much, many times.”

“I thought it was the empty sentiments of a friend, intended to pacify me,” Courfeyrac admitted.

“Never,” Combeferre said sternly. He hesitated, reaching forwards to brush his fingers along the side of Courfeyrac's face, where the grapeshot had done it's worst.

“We have wasted a very long time.” he said.

Courfeyrac smiled, “We have.” he agreed, leaning over to kiss him sweetly on the corner of his mouth, “But waste no more,”

Combeferre sighed, pulling Courfeyrac into his arms and burying his face in his hair. How had he not noticed before how delightfully soft his curls were? And how had he never, in all those eleven years, stopped to let himself more thoroughly examine his feelings for Courfeyrac? He realised, suddenly, that this was not a new sensation to him – he recalled all the times his heart had felt light to hear Courfeyrac laugh, all the times he had held him through his nightmares.

It felt as though a revelation was coming over him all at once; like the sun rising up from behind the city skyline.

He loved him.

“I do hope Enjolras heard none of that,” Courfeyrac said suddenly, shattering the silence, “I would hate to put him through such an ordeal,” he said, but the contented way he spread out on the bed rather undermined his words.

“What a thing to have to explain! He shall think he has corrupted us, ha!”

Combeferre shook his head, “Enjolras heard nothing,” he said, “He returned to his home earlier this evening.”

Courfeyrac frowned, suddenly propping himself up on his elbows and looking at him curiously, “Oh? Why so?”

“His eldest son is sick,” Combeferre explained, “He decided to go back to be with him.”

“Sick? How sick?”

“Very, from what I understand...”

Courfeyrac sat bolt upright, eyes growing wide, “Is that so? My god! What are you doing here, then?”

Combeferre scowled, “I'm sorry...? I do not follow---”

“Enjolras' child is ill,” Courfeyrac said, throwing off the sheets and abandoning the bed, “Are you a brute or merely an imbecile? Get up!”

Combeferre did as he was commanded, still confused, “Courfeyrac...?”

“He is our dear brother. You love him as I do, do you not?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then dress yourself,” Courfeyrac ordered, throwing Combeferre's shirt at him, “We have to go to him.”

“I have business I need to attend to in Paris, and a meeting in less than an hour! I cannot just---”

“Combeferre, that was not a suggestion!” Courfeyrac snapped. Combeferre blinked, stunned, and then wordlessly did as he was told.

“Are you a fool or a physician?” Courfeyrac said, buttoning up his own waistcoat with haste.

“I...a physician, of course---”

“Our friend's child is sick. You can help.” Courfeyrac said sharply, somehow casting an intimidating figure despite being wild-haired and half-dressed, “And if you have hopes of ever bedding me again you will call for a carriage immediately.”

Combeferre was not about to argue further.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! It's even worse than you thought!
> 
> Also this chapter is from Enjolras' point of view again! Hurray! I missed writing this guy's internal monologue.

There was a sign on the door of the house when Enjolras' carriage pulled up outside; written in Marceline's hand it read simply; _'Beware; scarlatina. Household not taking visitors'_.

The sight of it made Enjolras' stomach curdle. 

“Marceline!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the door so furiously he must have looked to be a madman, “Marceline, it is me! Open the door!”

The young midwife was there within moments, her usually glowing face now sallow as though all the light had been drawn from inside her. She looked so exhausted that for a moment Enjolras feared she had succumbed to the sickness herself.

“Monsieur, I am so glad you are here,” she said, ushering him inside, “We did not know when you might receive the letter..."

"I came as quickly as I could." Enjolras said, unbuttoning his coat, "How is he?"

"I am doing my best to control the situation, Monsieur, I swear, but I...it is bad. Very bad. There has been an outbreak in the town, you see,” Marceline rambled; it seemed to Enjolras as though she blamed herself for the outbreak.

“First it was Camille, the poor thing, and then soon---”

Enjolras stopped in his tracks, “ _First_ it was Camille?” he echoed, horrified, “Marceline, who else is sick?”

Marceline looked down, fumbling with the apron she was wearing, “Monsieur Grantaire would not leave his side..." she said, "I told him the boy needed to be in isolation until the Physician arrived, but he would not listen to me...”

Enjolras felt his heart stop.

“Grantaire is sick too?” he whispered. Marceline nodded.

Enjolras threw off his coat where he stood, not even bothering to hang it up, “Where is he?” he demanded, “And Camille?”

“Upstairs; they are both in the master bedroom.”

“And François? Marianne? How are they?”

“They haven't shown any signs of the sickness yet, Monsieur,” Marceline said, “I am keeping them away as best I can. The Physician has been called away for another case in town, but he will be back shortly...”

“Good.” Enjolras said, starting hurriedly up the stairs.

“Monsieur, wait!” Marceline cried, catching him by the arm, “You cannot go to them – you could fall sick too!”

“I will take the risk.”

 

-

 

A single candle was burning in the master bedroom, throwing menacing shadows onto the walls, and it felt to Enjolras that the atmosphere befit the circumstances. The air in the room was suffocating and close, as though it had been allowed to grow stale with the smell of death.

Grantaire was trembling with sickness beneath the sheets of their bed, Camille sleeping in a makeshift cot at the foot of it.

Enjolras paused in the doorway, certain that the guilt might kill him - that the very feeling might carve into his chest like a dagger and tear his heart out. How could he have abandoned his family like this? How could he have disappeared to Paris, leaving them to face this wretched sickness without him?

He should have been here.

From the first cough, the first hint of sickness, he should have been there – to comfort, to console. To be a father.

_He should have been there._

“Enjolras?”

Grantaire had turned his head on the pillow, his eyes bloodshot and struggling to focus, “You came back?”

Enjolras burned with shame to hear the surprise in his voice - did Grantaire truly think he would stay in Paris? He had half a mind to be offended, but seeing Grantaire banished the thought immediately. There was so little of the man he loved there, Enjolras thought; the Grantaire who was witty - sometimes too much so for his own good - and full of life, the Grantaire who had taught him how to lead in a dance, who painted and claimed he couldn't, who kissed him breathless and made Enjolras feel near holy.

The sickly, shivering stranger in their bed did not resemble that Grantaire even remotely.

Enjolras went to his side, kneeling by the bed, “I did," he said, brushing some of Grantaire's curls from his face. His skin felt clammy, and his cheeks were flush.

“Are you sure?” Grantaire rasped, “I have been hallucinating, the Physician says. Are you quite certain that you are real? I do not think I can trust my eyes.”

“It is me,” Enjolras promised, letting his fingertips trace gently along the line of Grantaire's jaw, “You see?” he said, “I am real.”

Grantaire smiled weakly, “Even if you aren't I am glad to see you,” he said, “I will happily go mad if it means I have you with me again.”

“Well you aren't going mad.” Enjolras said, “I came from Paris the moment I received your letter. I am real.”

“If you say so.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like death,” Grantaire jested feebly, “But then I suppose that is because I am not too far from it.”

“Do not say that,” Enjolras scolded, “You are going to be fine.”

He pulled the sheets back to see his condition for himself, feeling his heart sink as he did – Grantaire's chest and arms were covered in an angry red rash, burning on his skin, blooming like a bouquet of roses. It was horrendous.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, fearful to touch him.

Grantaire sighed shakily, “Somewhat.” he said, “It feels as though I am on fire, in truth – and it itches, terribly so. I came close to asking Marceline to tie my hands to the headboard so that I would not scratch off my own flesh.”

Enjolras grimaced, feeling tears starting to roll down his cheeks, “I am sorry,” he said, his voice cracking, “I am so sorry. I should never have left.”

“This is not your fault,” Grantaire asserted, taking his hand, “This sickness would have no doubt happened even if you were here. If anything I count my blessings that you were not here to catch it as well...” he said, “You ought to leave. I do not want you sick.”

“I am not going anywhere.” Enjolras said vehemently, tightening his grip on Grantaire's hand, “Not again."

Grantaire seemed too exhausted to argue for once in his life; he closed his eyes, still quaking, “Camille,” he croaked, “Please see to him. He needs you more than I do...”

Enjolras nodded, moving to the cot at the end of the bed; Camille was lost to fevered dreams, twitching occasionally, his brow furrowed in discomfort. When he frowned so he resembled Grantaire even more, and the sight of him was twice as painful.

Enjolras reached out, holding one hand to his forehead; it was damp with sweat and scorching hot beneath his palm.

“Camille...”

He was so far from his usual self – feeble and quiet and stripped of his spirit. The bold, precocious child Enjolras knew so well was nowhere to be found, and it was in that moment that he realised how severe the situation really was.

His son was dying, and he had not been here when he fell ill.

“Papa...?” Camille's eyes fluttered open, but his voice was faint when he spoke, as though the very effort of talking drained the life out of him.

“Hush, Camille, I'm here,” Enjolras soothed, “I'm here...”

“You came back...?” he boy said, confused.

“Of course I did,” Enjolras said, moving his hand to kiss his forehead, “I heard that you needed me here and so I came at once.”

“What was it like?”

“Paris? It was wonderful. I shall take you there to visit when you are better.”

“I don't feel very good.” Camille mumbled, “My throat hurts.”

“I know,” Enjolras said, “But you will be better soon. I have a present for you, Camille – from Paris.”

“What is it?”

“I would not want to spoil the surprise,” Enjolras said, “I shall give it to you when you are recovered – and so you must try very, very hard to get better soon, you hear?”

“I will try, papa,” Camille promised, closing his eyes and resting his head against Enjolras' chest, “I am glad that you're home.”

 

-

 

Enjolras did not know when exactly he fell asleep, but when he woke it was light outside, morning sunlight creeping into the room through the slats of the shutters. He was laying on his side in Camille's bed, the small boy still a shivering wreck in his arms. Shamefully Enjolras realised it was the longest time he had ever held any of his children; his own father had always dismissed such displays of parental affection as foolish coddling.

“Monsieur?”

He lifted his head from the pillow, seeing Marceline standing in the doorway in her nightdress.

“Yes?”

“The town physician arrived."

"Good. Send him in."

"I cannot; I have sent him away,” she informed him.

“What? _Why?_ ”

She smiled slightly, “Because somebody else offered his services in his stead, and I felt he would be better suited...” she said, stepping aside.

Enjolras felt his heart swell when he saw Combeferre, medical bag in hand.

“I am sorry it took me so long to get here,” he said as he entered the room. 

“Combeferre," Enjolras breathed, "What are you doing here?”

“I am a physician.” Combeferre said, looking down as though ashamed of his earlier behaviour, “And if I can help in some way, I must.”

Enjolras managed a grateful smile, “But you have prior engagements and meetings to attend to. You have places to be in Paris...”

“And none of them half so important as my place here.” Combeferre said matter-of-factly, setting his bag down on the bed and opening it up, “How are they fairing?”

“Bad,” Enjolras told him, “It is so bad, Combeferre. I do not know what to do.” he glanced down at Camille, still drifting in and out of consciousness against his chest.

“I cannot lose either of them; I simply cannot. It would kill me.”

“You say a Physician has already seen them?” Combeferre asked, turning to Marceline.

“Yes,” she said sadly, “And he did not give either of them a good prognosis.”

Combeferre sighed, “Enjolras, I am afraid I will need you to leave---”

“No.”

“That was not a suggestion.”

“I will not leave them again.” Enjolras swore, clutching Camille protectively, “And if you insist upon it then you shall find you have to drag me from the room.”

“Enjolras, please; I do not ask you this to cause you further pain.” Combeferre argued, “But if it is indeed Scarlatina then it is very contagious, and you have already taken great risk in staying with them both as long as you have.”

“I do not care.” Enjolras said fiercely, “If I am to die of Scarlet Fever then I shall die of it, but I will die knowing I did not leave my family's side again.”

“Enjolras---”

“There is no question, Combeferre. I am staying put.”

Enjolras saw the conflict in Combeferre's eyes - the battle raging between doctor and friend – and then his shoulders sagged and he sighed, defeated.

“Very well,” he said, “But if you insist upon staying you will not be permitted to be around François or Marianne. If they were to catch it they would surely die.”

“I accept that.”

“What treatment have they received so far?” Combeferre inquired, leaning over to examine the boy.

“Bloodletting,” Marceline said, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the thought, “The Physician who saw them earlier swore by it. I think it is barbaric, myself."

Combeferre shook his head, “There will be no more of that – it is useless for Scarlatina, in my opinion. They need water, and broth or stew to restore their strength,” he said, making his way over to the shutters to pull them back and open the windows, “The room needs to be kept airy and light.” he ordered, “And they must remain cool but not cold.”

“What can I do to help?” Enjolras asked.

“You can assist me, since you are determined to remain with them both." Combeferre decided, "Get up. Here, take this," he soaked a cloth in a bowl of water, handing it to him, “Their skin will be burning from the rash. This will help to ease their suffering a little. Treat Grantaire first; his rash seems the most severe.”

Enjolras did as he was told, folding back the bedsheets to dab the cloth gently against the redness on Grantaire's chest. He shifted uncomfortably as he did, gritting his teeth.

“Shhh...” Enjolras soothed, running his hand through his hair, “Try to rest, my love. Combeferre says this should help...” he said, relieved when Grantaire relaxed under his touch.

Combeferre smiled, "We may make a nurse of you yet," he said.

Enjolras shook his head, "Doubtful." he said, “You are right; his rash is the worst. Will he be alright?”

“The sickness is less common in adults,” Combeferre said, placing one hand softly on his back, “For him to be so ill it must be a very aggressive form of the fever.”

Enjolras clenched his jaw, not taking his eyes off Grantaire, “What are you saying?”

Grantaire coughed a little, “He is saying that you may soon find yourself a widower, mon coeur,”

Combeferre cringed, having clearly thought Grantaire asleep, “I will not give you a falsely favourable outcome,” he said honestly, “You are in a bad way.”

“I could have told you that and I did not study medicine,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras sank to his knees, feeling as though his world was crashing down around him. He could not lose Grantaire; they had endured too much together.

“You have to be wrong,” he said to Combeferre, clutching Grantaire's hand with both his own and pressing his forehead to Grantaire's knuckles as though in prayer.

“Please do not leave me,” he begged, “Please."

Grantaire opened his eyes then, staring at him, “I am glad you came home,” he said.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING; there's some pretty brutal discussions in this fic. Brace yourselves.

“Courfeyrac accompanied me here,” Combeferre said, when both Camille and Grantaire were sleeping fitfully. He had had one of the chaises brought into the bedroom from the drawing room, determined that if Enjolras were to insist upon staying there that he would at least have somewhere comfortable to sleep. The two of them sat there now, swallowed up by the gravelike silence of the room.

“This was not how I wished for Courfeyrac to meet my family.” Enjolras said, resting his head on Combeferre's shoulder and closing his eyes.

“I know. I am sorry it happened like this. He is with François and Marianne at the moment,” Combeferre said, “I thought it best; he is excellent with children.”

“A pity he has none of his own.” Enjolras said, “He would have been a wonderful father.”

“There is still time. Perhaps we can arrange a match between him and Marceline?” Combeferre joked lightly. Enjolras managed a chuckle.

“I doubt she'd take him; she's not fond of what she calls 'fanciful' men, those who care for fashion. The way she talks I wonder if she is fond of men at all.”

“Is that so? There must be something about you that draws such people to you,” Combeferre said playfully.

“Perhaps. Besides which, I think Courfeyrac's affections are quite focused elsewhere...” Enjolras lifted his head, “Did you and him speak?”

“Oh, yes,” Combeferre flushed, “In a manner.”

“ _Oh_.” Enjolras raised his eyebrows, catching on, “Well...I see that you wasted no time, then.”

“We had already wasted years,” Combeferre reasoned, “I did not see the point in careful courting. And you are hardly one to talk, at any rate."

"Grantaire and I may have had our...dalliance, that led to Camille, but we were wed a whole year before we took up as lovers for true," Enjolras argued, "We observed the ways of - as you call it - 'careful courting' quite properly indeed."

"That is a surprise," Combeferre remarked, "Grantaire doesn't seem the type."

Fleetingly Enjolras looked as though he were amused, but then Camille began to cough loudly from his cot and the ghost of a smile was gone from his face in an instant. He abandoned the chaise and hurried to the boy's bedside, kneeling to stroke Camille's hair as he tried feebly to prop himself up on the mattress.

“Papa...”

“Hush,” Enjolras said, sweeping the boy's dark curls out of his eyes, “Lay back and be still. You need to rest some more. Combeferre - he feels cooler.”

Combeferre breathed a small sigh of relief, joining Enjolras beside the cot to feel for himself. Camille was still warm to the touch, but it no longer felt as though a fire was raging beneath his skin.

“His temperature is coming down,” he reported.

He saw the fear physically leave Enjolras' body; he pulled Camille into his arms, cradling him to his chest as though he were an infant once more.

“Oh thank god...” he said, practically weeping, "My precious boy..."

“His sickness has not yet passed,” Combeferre reminded him, “But this is promising.”

“Well I shall stay with him until it is over,” Enjolras said, “My other children are in very good care, after all.”

 

-

 

Enjolras, true to his word, did not leave Camille or Grantaire's side, resting sporadically and taking his meals in the room with them.

The two of them lingered in the space between life and death for three long days, Camille showing improvement but Grantaire declining steadily. To Combeferre it felt significant that as Grantaire began to fail Camille started to recover - as though Grantaire had made some heavenly pact agreeing to take his son's place.

Combeferre did not doubt that he would have, if it were in his power to decide.

The rash on his skin grew gradually worse, spreading until his whole chest was red and rough to the touch. Enjolras remained by his side, keeping him cool with a damp cloth and fruitlessly trying to tempt him to eat whenever he could.

On the third day Combeferre had Camille moved back to his own room; he was well enough, sitting up in bed and reading, and he did not think it right that he should have to see his father in such a state.

The hallucinations where the worst part, Combeferre decided; as a physician he had seen people lose their minds to Scaraltina before, but never had he been forced to watch someone he knew succumb to it.

Grantaire would wake from a restless slumber, agitated and nonsensical, scrambling to get out of bed until someone restrained him. Sometimes he spoke of his family home in Auvergne as though he were still there, murmuring things to his sisters in Spanish and whispering about their younger brother who had died in childhood. Occasionally he was studying under Gros once more, criticizing himself for his own mistakes, and at other times he was certain that Camille was still a babe, barely toddling. 

One night he sat bolt upright, reaching out to grab Enjolras' arm, his eyes wild.

“Where is Joly?” he asked, clawing at Enjolras' sleeve, “He and I were supposed to be playing cards with Laigle at seven, but he is not along yet. Where is he?”

Enjolras flinched, “Joly will be along later,” he whispered, holding him close, “He says that they shall be a little late, and to not start without them. You should sleep now, until then...”

Grantaire's eyes clouded with confusion as Enjolras guided him back down onto his pillow, looking for a moment as though he did not know who Enjolras was.

“Enjolras,” he said finally, perplexed, “Enjolras? I do not understand. Why are you here?”

“I am here to take care of you, of course...” Enjolras said softly.

“No – no, that does not make sense,” Grantaire said, looking as though he wanted to weep, “You despise me! You disdain me! I am incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying...”

His words hit Enjolras hard; Combeferre saw him falter a little, as though Grantaire had just driven a knife into his chest.

“I do not despise you,” he said when he composed himself, “I could not despise you if I tried. I love you.”

Grantaire shook his head as though to refute his words, still lost, and then suddenly he was back in Auvergne, talking about the garden there. He rambled for a few more minutes before falling back to sleep, shivering beneath the sheets.

Enjolras turned to Combeferre, his face drawn and pale, “I cannot bear this any longer!” he said, “Combeferre, make it stop - _please_ make it stop...”

“I cannot,” Combeferre said, “I am sorry.”

“Give him laudanum. Anything,” Enjolras pleaded, walking around the bed to seize his hands, “Please. Just make it so that he sleeps without dreaming, I beg you...”

“Laudanum might yet make him worse. At this point all we can do is wait for the fever to break, or---” he stopped himself there, but he saw Enjolras' eyes flash with recognition.

“Or for him to die?” he guessed, voice faint.

Combeferre looked down, “Or for him to die.” he confirmed. There was no use denying the dire state of Grantaire's health any longer - the truth was a vicious reality. 

“Is it truly so bad?”

“I wish that I could tell you differently,” Combeferre said, “He has hung on far longer than I anticipated when I first saw his condition, I confess. But Enjolras...it may be worth considering what you will do in the event that he does not recover.”

Enjolras stared at him, taken aback, “I...I do not know.” he said, suddenly letting go of Combeferre's hands and taking a step back, “I have never had to think on it...”

“I know this is a difficult time, Enjolras, but I must ask – Has Grantaire a will?”

Enjolras shook his head slowly, “No. No, of course not...you said yourself; he would never drag me through any legal proceedings that would see me called a woman...”

Combeferre had though as such, but he dreaded the confirmation of it all the same. 

He grimaced, unsure where to start, “Enjolras, I...I know that you are a man; I would never doubt it. But...the law says that you are not.”

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying that as far as legal matters are concerned...you have very few rights, in the event of Grantaire's death."

“But---”

“When you wed everything of yours became his,” Combeferre reminded him, “By the laws of coverture you exist as one entity; your fiances, your home, your land. In the eyes of the law it is all his, and you are a mere extension of him. If he dies then his family may try to contest your right to his estate.”

Enjolras began to pace, wringing his hands nervously, “Combeferre, please, I do not want want to think on this now...”

“Enjolras you _have_ to think on it - they could see you and the children out on the street if they succeeded! He said it himself; his family have developed a renewed love for him since he married you. You may mean financial gain to his father and little else.”

“No - surely he could not take _everything_ from me?”

“You may be entitled to part of his estate, but not enough to keep you and three children afloat.”

“No. _No_. We bought this house with _my_ dowry. It is _mine_.”

“It is not, Enjolras. It is Grantaire's.” Combeferre pointed out sadly, “And he has no will stating that it should go to you on his death.”

“I have had his children!” Enjolras protested, whirling on him, “Two of them sons! Surely their rights to his estate trump Grantaire's father's? Surely?”

“They should,” Combeferre nodded, “But it is not uncommon for families to question the paternity of children if they feel they can gain from it. As far as they are concerned there is no proof that they are Grantaire's children aside from your word, and---"

“No proof?!” Enjolras was in near hysterics now, “ _No proof?!_ All they need do is _look_ upon Camille and they will know him to be Grantaire's son! He is the very image of him!”

“I know. Enjolras, I know...” Combeferre sighed, reaching out to brace his shoulders, grounding him in place, “Look at me, please. I know that this is hard for you; that the thought of all of this cannot be helpful. But you must have a plan in place, should the worst happen.”

Enjolras blinked back tears, taking a deep breath, “What do you suggest?”

“If you are left with nothing your family will surely hear of it,” Combeferre began, “Your father will not wish for you to live alone with the children, no doubt. They may try to arrange you a new marriage, or else demand the children be sent to live with them...”

“I cannot lose my children,” Enjolras said, “I cannot; I abandoned them once, I will not be parted from them again...” his lip trembled, “If Grantaire dies they are all I have left of him.”

“I know that, but you may find that you have very few rights without a husband, Enjolras.”

“I _know_ that,” Enjolras snapped, “Thank you for reminding me that by some misfortune of birth I am seen as less than I am!” he stepped away, turning his back on Combeferre.

“Enjolras, hear me out, please,” Combeferre said, reaching for his hand, “I am trying to say that if it comes to that I am willing to take on that responsibility.”

“ _Responsibility_?!” Enjolras spun to face him, his eyes blazing, “Graverobber! Damn you to hell – he is not even dead yet!”

“Do not mistake me for a monster, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, “But I do not want to see you in the gutter – or worse still, forced into some match of your parents' making.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, pulling his hand away, “I know. Please, Combeferre; I will think on your offer, but only if he...” he trailed off, looking as though he might physically be ill if he tried to finish his sentence.

“I cannot think that way at present. You must understand. I cannot give up on him yet.”

Combeferre nodded, glancing over at where Grantaire was still tossing and turning restlessly in his sleep.

“If you need to leave the room nobody would think any less of you,” he assured him, “If he begins to hallucinate again you should not be here. You must keep your head together; I do not want to see you distressed. Your children need your strength now."

“It is impossible not to be distressed.”

“I know. But you should not have to see this.”

Enjolras did not seem convinced; the reason for this indecision was transparent. 

“If his condition worsens I shall call you back in,” Combeferre promised, “If it happens you will be with him at the end - I swear that to you, Enjolras. You will be at his side. Now go – sit with Courfeyrac. You will find him in the parlour.”

“Am I not supposed to be in isolation?”

“If you were to be sick by now you would already by showing signs,” Combeferre mumbled, “Go to him.”

Enjolras hesitated, eyes fixed on Grantaire as though he felt he were in some way betraying him by leaving the room, “Very well. But please send for me when he wakes.”

 

-

 

It was a knock on the door that woke Combeferre; he had fallen asleep in the chair beside Grantaire's bed, waiting to see if he would wake from his stupor.

He got to his feet, stumbling tiredly to the door to open it and finding Courfeyrac standing in the hallway, his eyes troubled.

“May I come in?” he asked, peering over Combeferre's shoulder into the darkened room.

“You should not be here,” Combeferre scolded by way of an answer, trying to close the door on him, “The sickness---”

“I had scarlet fever as a child,” Courfeyrac said, pushing his way inside, “You can only catch it once, yes? Believe me, I will be fine.”

Combeferre grudgingly stepped aside, watching as Courfeyrac approached the bed.

“My god,” he said, taking in sight of Grantaire's near lifeless body, “I have never seen anybody look so sick. I do not know what I thought it would be like, but...it is horrendous."

"It is."

Courfeyrac stopped a foot from the bed, eyes full of sorrow, "You know I was rather looking forward to seeing Grantaire again - I always found him to be good company. But look at him. The poor man.”

Combeferre sighed, moving to stand beside him, “I do not think he will survive much longer.”

“I know.” Courfeyrac took his hand, glancing up at him, “Enjolras told me what you suggested to him.”

“Did he curse me terribly for it?”

“No; his anger has faded already. He said instead that he would accept your hand.”

Combeferre winced, “Not exactly the circumstances under which I envisioned I would ever be married...”

“I am certain not.”

“You would not find it strange, would you?”

“Do not be a fool - of course I would not,” Courfeyrac waved it off, “Not unless you insisted upon consummating it, anyhow.”

“You know that Enjolras would castrate me with a letter opener if I even suggested it,” Combeferre scoffed, “And besides that I see him as my brother; I do not think I could rise to the occasion even if I wanted to.”

Courfeyrac look down at his feet, “My heart aches for Enjolras,” he said, “He is strong - he has survived so much - but to lose a loved one in a manner such as this...” he closed his eyes, “Fever is a whole different kind of death - cruel. It transforms people into strangers. It is unfair. And those poor children..."

“Grantaire does not even know where he is,” Combeferre mumbled, “And for all my training I do not know what more I can do for him. I know that it breaks Enjolras' heart to see him like this. It seems hopeless. I confess, Courfeyrac, I have considered giving him laudanum...”

“To help him sleep?”

“In a sense.” Combeferre said, feeling a jagged lump form in his throat, “Though at such a high enough dose that he would not wake.”

Courfeyrac looked at Combeferre with alarm, “You surely do not mean...?”

“I do.”

“I...do you think it would it be kinder?”

“You tell me,” Combeferre said, as Grantaire began to mutter incoherently in his sleep once more, “If offered the choice would you take a deep sleep over hallucinations and convulsions?”

“Yes. I would.” Courfeyrac let out a heavy sigh, “But perhaps stay your hand a little longer yet,” he suggested, “If Enjolras heard you talking of this he would never forgive you.”

“I know...” Combeferre said, “I would have to do so without his knowledge, and live with it on my conscience. I hate the thought. But I am a doctor, Courfeyrac – I swore to ease the suffering of my patients where I could, and Grantaire is suffering terribly at present.”

Coufeyrac hung his head, “I pray it does not come to that...”

“As do I.”

“But if it should,” Courfeyrac added cautiously, glancing sideways at Combeferre, “Then I shall stay with you, when you do.”

Combeferre felt his heart clench. He did not want that.

The thought of having to do such a thing was abhorrent enough, but that Courfeyrac should be present, that he should be complicit, made the bile rise in his throat. He could not bear the thought of them united for eternity by such a horrible secret. He wanted to voice this, but no words would leave his lips; deep down he knew he did not have the courage to do it alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~If there's a god above, he'd let me die insteaddddd~~~~
> 
> Combeferre is having a crisis of conscience as a doctor.


	14. Chapter 14

Combeferre turned the small brown vial over in his hands, holding the glass vial up to the candlelight and tilting it from side to side to watch it's contents move in the bottle. He sighed, slipping it back into the pocket of his waistcoat. He felt sick to his stomach.

Eight years ago Combeferre had found a way to reconcile with the thought that he might have to take a life on the barricades, only to find himself incapacitated by a bayonet before murder had become a necessity. Even as he had been lying broken in the wreckage of Rue de la Chanvrerie, hands pressed to his stomach to try and staunch his own bleeding, he had considered it a blessing that he had not been forced to kill after all.

' _I can die as myself,'_ he had thought as his vision had begun to grow spotty. It was a sort of peace he had relished in - a matter that had given him great comfort as he had thought himself about to die. 

But now here he was, years later, sitting alone in a dimly lit parlour and contemplating whether or not he could go through with ending the life of his dearest friend's husband. To lose a patient was one thing - to have a hand in it was another entirely. The very idea was detestable to him – something that went against his very nature - and yet here he was.

He did not know if he could bring himself to play god in such a manner.

He was a man of logic, yes, but he discounted nothing he could not disprove, and he was not so passionately wed to science that he could forget being ten years old, sitting in a cold church with his parents and hearing those most unmistakable of words; _thou shalt not kill._

No, such a thing was wrong beyond comprehension; murder was the most inhuman of human acts.

But then he thought of Grantaire, suffering furiously under the wrath of his fever, and of Enjolras, forced to watch it devour the man he loved, and his heart ached. 

It would be a gentler way to go, Combeferre could not deny, and easy enough to execute. He could lace his broth or water with enough laudanum that he would slip slowly into a permanent sleep, and then gather Enjolras and the children to him in those final moments. 

It was surely preferable to the violent end that awaited him if he was left to die naturally. At present the children were not even permitted to be in the same room as Grantaire – not only due to fear of contagion but because he would no doubt scare them with his delusions.

It was past midnight when Combeferre reached a decision; he would wait, as Courfeyrac suggested, but only a little longer. If Grantaire's fever descended into convulsions then he would do it; he had seen Scarlet Fever enough times to know that once such violent shakes took hold of the body, death followed close behind, nipping at the heels like a hungry dog.

“Combeferre!”

He leapt to his feet, startled by Enjolras' voice as he burst into the parlour. His hair was gilded by the candlelight and his eyes were wide. Combeferre scanned his face frantically for emotion, terrified for a moment that he had somehow discovered his plan.

“Enjolras, is something the matter...?”

“It is Grantaire."

Combeferre's heart turned into a heavy weight in his chest. Had he stayed the hand of mercy too long? The thought of Enjolras having to watch those final throes of death - those Combeferre had witnessed several times before in his clinic – made him feel ill.

“What happened? Is he worsening?”

Enjolras shook his head, “No,” he said, “No, come quickly,” he seized Combeferre by the wrist, all but dragging him up the stairs towards the master bedroom.

“You need to see him,” he said.

When he first entered the room Combeferre did not immediately see any real change in his condition; Grantaire was still laying on his back in bed, his breathing laboured, and fleetingly Combeferre worried that Enjolras was seeing improvement where there was none, desperately clinging to a thread of hope that did not exist. But as he neared the bed he saw that Grantaire's eyes were open, less glazed than before. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras sat down beside him on the bed, touching one hand gently to his arm, “My love, can you hear me...?”

Grantaire turned his head a little, eyes settling on Enjolras with recognition.

“Enjolras...?”

Enjolras smiled, “Yes, I'm here,” he reached out to push his hair back, “So is Combeferre. Do you know where you are?”

“I am at home, am I not...?”

Enjolras nodded, looking optimistically to Combeferre, “Is this good?”

Combeferre raised his eyebrows, placing the back of his hand to Grantaire's forehead; his skin was still clammy, still daubed with sweat, but most of the heat had faded out of him.

“His fever has broken,” he said, unable to hide his surprise, “He may yet live.”

Enjolras beamed, standing and embracing Combeferre so tightly that he was nearly pulled over with the force of it, “This is your doing,” he praised, “I know so in my heart!"

Combeferre wrapped his arms around him, looking over his shoulder at Grantaire and feeling guilt claw at his insides like a rat.

His doing - if only. This was the work of pure chance and perhaps Grantaire's strong constitution, but little else. If Enjolras only knew what idea he had been wrestling with he had no doubts his friend would have banished him from his sights forever.

“He is not out of harm yet, Enjolras,” he said, prying himself free, "His condition was dire, and his convalescence may take many months...”

“I do not care how long it takes,” Enjolras said determinedly, “I will remain by his side as long as he needs me.” he turned his attention back to Grantaire, brushing his fingers affectionately to his, “I know that I am hardly the nurturing sort, but I swear that I shall care for you until you are well again."

Grantaire managed a strained smile, “I know that you will,” he said, his voice cracked from lack of use and the pain in his throat, “You came home, and so it follows that you must love me still...”

“Of course I love you,” Enjolras said, “I do not want to give you cause to ever doubt that again.”

“Then I am a fortunate man,” Grantaire decided, “Fever or no. I am sorry, for the things I said before you left for Paris. For the things that I implied.” his eyes went to Combeferre, apologetic, “I was scared to lose you.”

“I am sorry too,” Enjolras said, kissing his forehead, “I acted horribly. I was selfish. We have both been fools.”

“I will leave you both alone,” Combeferre said, feeling painfully out of place in the room now that Grantaire was more lucid and talking sense once again. He was sure that they had much more to say to each other without him present.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said as he went to leave, catching his sleeve, “Truly. For your most excellent care.”

Combeferre choked back the truth, and all the guilt and insecurity that was bubbling up inside his chest.

“If you need me, I shall be with Courfeyrac.” he said.

 

-

 

Grantaire's recovery was slow; a month had passed before he could do more than sit up in bed, and when he did he did so with such difficulty that Combeferre began to suspect all was not well with him in the wake of his sickness.

“Does this hurt?” he asked one afternoon when examining him, slowly attempting to bend one of Grantaire's legs.

“A little,” Grantaire said, gritting his teeth, “Actually, no, that is rather---ah, alright, _stop_!”

Combeferre sighed, releasing his leg, “It is as I thought, then,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, “There are likely to be long-term effects...”

Enjolras frowned anxiously from where he stood on the other side of the bed, holding Grantaire's hand.

“Long-term effects?” he echoed, “Such as?”

“A fever like this takes it's toll on the body,” Combeferre explained, “As such he may never recover in totality; he will likely suffer aches and pains of varying severity for the remainder of his life.”

“Wonderful,” Grantaire said, laying his head back on the pillow, “What do you suggest for me, then?”

“A cane. Perhaps even crutches. It depends on how you go along."

“A cane?” a look of despair crossed Grantaire's face for a moment, but it passed as quickly as it had appeared.

“Well, if it was good enough for Joly,” he said with an unexpected air of acceptance, “But be sure to find me something nice – nothing plain.” he added, “I know I am not known for the finer things in life, but at my heart I am still a libertine and would like something with a bit of flair. Get Courfeyrac to pick it out for me, I trust his opinion on the matter.”

“You are taking this very well...” Enjolras said.

“Well it is not so bad, is it? I am alive, at least,” Grantaire said, “Though I confess that I will miss playing with the children, and dancing and fencing...” he looked at Enjolras, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his lips, “And other things that I may no longer be able to do with as much vigour as before...”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, though his cheeks turned pink, “I am sure we shall find a way around that particular predicament.” he said, kissing the top of his head.

Combeferre admired Grantaire's attitude, but he could not help but think his optimism might ebb when faced with the reality of his living with his poor health.

“Shall I be bedridden much longer?” he asked.

“You can hardly walk at present,” Combeferre pointed out, “It will be quite a while before you are well again. It can take many months to recover enough to resume normal life.”

Grantaire gave a dejected groan, “Very well,” he said, “If you insist - though I am like to lose my mind stuck in here.”

“I survived it,” Enjolras said, “You can draw, to keep yourself occupied. And I will keep you company.”

Grantaire grinned, “In that case I am sure I will manage,” he agreed, “We shall surely find a favourable way to pass the time...”

“We have just established that you are in pain.” Combeferre reminded him bluntly.

Grantaire still had a devilish look about him, “Well, not _all_ of me...”

“You will be _resting_.” Enjolras insisted, clearly fighting the urge to laugh, “But by all means consider such things motivation to recover.”

“Oh I will,”

Combeferre removed his spectacles, focusing on cleaning the lenses on his shirt so that he did not have to see what passed between Enjolras and Grantaire, “Delightful.” he said, “On that note – you need to sleep.”

 

-

 

The months ticked by, and soon it was May, and Camille's birthday. The toy flintlock that Enjolras had purchased in Paris became a suitable birthday gift, but little other festivity marked the boy turning eight.

It seemed to Combeferre that the recent events had spurred in Enjolras the desire to become a better father - though the role fit him ill Combeferre soon noticed him trying with difficulty to involve himself in their games. He came downstairs one morning to find Enjolras and Courfeyrac chasing Camille and François around the garden with sticks for swords, Camille trying to fight them both off with his wooden sabre.

“You are terrible at singlestick, papa,” The boy said to Enjolras, lifting his chin smugly, “Father showed me how whilst you were away in Paris!”

“Did he really? And you actually listened, this time?” Enjolras smiled, trying his best to take the correct posture; he was poor at it, even Combeferre could see.

“You feet are all wrong.” Camille informed him.

“I am trying my best!” Enjolras laughed, “Do have some patience; everyone is a beginner at a point. I remember when you were too little to even lift a sword, let alone swing one.”

Camille stuck out his tongue.

“You _are_ quite awful at it,” Courfeyrac remarked to Enjolras somewhat pityingly, “He has a fair point. You are opening yourself up to attack completely, your stance is abysmal. Here, let me fix you---” he decided, trying to adjust Enjolras' position. 

Combeferre smiled. In spite of all the recent misery it was a pleasant scene to behold; the sun was out, the weather starting to warm with spring, and with it the flowers in the garden were beginning to bloom.

“Oh, to hell with this!” Enjolras decided, shooing Courfeyrac away and lunging at Camille, who screamed with delight and turned to run.

“Show him no mercy, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac cried, before noticing Combeferre watching fondly from the doorway. His eyes lit up.

“Ah, Monsieur,” he said with an exaggerated bow, “Do you care to duel?”

“I think I shall have to turn down the offer, thank you. I am not very skilled in the deadly arts - it is not something they taught me in medical school, at any rate...” Combeferre said, watching as Enjolras caught up to François – the small boy could not run quite as fast as his brother – and lifted him into his arms.

“He seems different of late,” he commented.

“Yes, well,” Courfeyrac gave a lighthearted shrug, “We talked.”

“Of what?”

“Of his children. Of fatherhood. Of how he ought to get to know his boys more, and spend some time with Marianne. I do not think it ever truly occurred to him how blessed he was to have them until recently.”

Combeferre could not help but smile, “Well it seems your words have had an effect...”

“I do hope so.” Courfeyrac said brightly, “They are delightful children – they deserve present parents, do they not? Camille reminds me so much of Enjolras. François, on the other hand...” he looked over at the little boy, with his messy curls and big smile, “He doesn't remind me of either Enjolras or Grantaire. It is sad, you know – I see a lot of Prouvaire in him.”

“I noticed that too.”

“Mhmm...he finds you quite intriguing, you know?”

“What? François?”

“Yes.” Courfeyrac said, “He has been telling Enjolras all about his grand plans to become a physician. He sees you as the hero who saved the lives of his father and brother.”

The smile disappeared from Combeferre's face in a heartbeat.

“Oh,” he said, looking down at his feet, “A pity the boy is mistaken, then. It was good fortune that spared them, nothing more.”

“I am sure your care helped some,” Courfeyrac objected.

“I almost _killed_ Grantaire,” Combeferre whispered, checking that Enjolras was not within earshot; his friend was too preoccupied with the children to notice he and Courfeyrac talking.

“Because you did not want him to suffer,” Courfeyrac said, lowering his voice, “And you did not go through with it. He got better. All is well. Do not hound yourself over something that did not come to pass.”

Combeferre could not find the words to respond to him. Instead he simply forced a smile and pointed across the garden, “You ought to go back to your sport,” he advised, “Enjolras is terribly outnumbered at present."

 

-

 

The anniversary of the barricades rolled around with little acknowledgement, the way it always had for Combeferre and Courfeyrac. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them not to dwell on the date; Courfeyrac might raise a toast and sip a glass of port, and some years Combeferre would find himself passing the place the Corinth once stood, but aside from these small tributes to the dead that terrible date was largely put out of mind.

It seemed bitter irony, then, that June was the month in which Grantaire seemed to make the most improvement.

He finally left the bed, doing so with the assistance of a set of crutches that Combeferre had acquired from the physician in town, and seemed in high spirits for it.

“I confess that I am not all that sure I know that I am doing with these,” he said to Combeferre one afternoon, looking to him for help as he practised pacing around the room.

“You are managing just fine,” Combeferre assured him, helping to support him as he took a few more steps, “You will need to do this at every opportunity if you are to get stronger.”

“I cannot say that the idea fills me with excitement,” Grantaire said, grimacing a little as he moved, "My legs still feel most stiff indeed." 

“It will not be pleasant at first, no,” Combeferre conceded, “But with time it will get easier. Enjolras can help you.”

“If you insist. That reminds me - where _is_ my dear husband?" 

“He is in the dining room with the children,” Combeferre told him, “The last I saw of them Camille was attempting to transform the dining table into a fortress.”

“Better that than a palace,” Grantaire joked, “Or Enjolras would be quite like to see him taken to the guillotine.”

Combeferre chuckled, “Very possibly.”

“I am pleased to hear that he is spending more time with them in my absence,” Grantaire said, voice suddenly quiet, “He has always been rather distant from them. I know that he did not want children, and so I cannot find it in me to blame him for his uneasiness. I myself have always been fond of children - I would have a very large family if Enjolras were like-minded."

Combeferre did not want to comment, instead concentrating on helping Grantaire to walk comfortably.

“I know the offer you made to him, Combeferre.”

The statement took him by surprise; he looked up, locking eyes with Grantaire, and felt panic jolt through him.

"Forgive me, I do not know what----”

“You offered to wed him if I had died,” Grantaire said, as though Combeferre could ever forget. 

"He told you?"

"He tells me everything," Grantaire said, "That is the way of marriage." 

“I...forgive me,” Combeferre stammered, half-expecting Grantaire to use what little strength he had to murder him, “But I could not abide the thought of Enjolras falling into an unfortunate situation. His parents would have sought some terrible match for him, and...and I could not stand---"

“I know.” Grantaire said, stopping what he was doing, “Combeferre, I think rather you misunderstand my intentions in bringing this up. I am trying to thank you - in truth I am deeply grateful that you made the offer." 

Combeferre furrowed his brow, his confusion apparently amusing Grantaire greatly.

He scoffed, “Do you think me truly so riddled with jealousy that I would resent you trying to help my family at a difficult time?”

“No, I...I am sorry,” Combeferre said, “I did not mean to imply that...”

“I know. And I am pleased to know that you would help him by whatever means necessary. My children, too,” he looked thoughtful for a moment, “I should like to always be there for them, if I can, but were I forced to choose somebody to replace me as their father, you would be a strong contender for the position.”

Combeferre did not know what to say. Grantaire's words were unexpected and touching, so touching that for a moment he found himself unable to respond. 

“I...thank you.” he said when he found himself capable of forming words, “Fortunately it is not something we need to concern ourselves with now. But if it is any consolation, Grantaire, you may always rely upon me to take care of your family in your absence." 

Grantaire smiled, awkwardly adjusting the way he was standing to sling one arm around Combeferre in what seemed to be a clumsy attempt at a heartfelt embrace.

“Good.” he said, smirking, “Now, do tell me, dear doctor - do you think I will be up to strenuous activities again soon?”

“I do not want to know what strenuous activity you are referring to.”

“Ah, you prude!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SIKE, y'all.
> 
> Grantaire: I lived, bitch.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking FINALLY.
> 
> Another from Enjolras' point of view.

June petered off into July, bringing with it an ungodly heatwave and the sinking realisation that Enjolras would soon find himself faced with a choice; return to Paris with Combeferre and Courfeyrac or remain here, with his family. The more Enjolras tried to weigh his options in his head the harder it became. He would be happiest in Paris – that much was indisputable – but what of his responsibilities here? And what of his conscience? When he had first returned home to sickness and suffering the idea of leaving again had been unimaginable, but now, with Grantaire and Camille both recovered, Paris called to him once more, her voice sweet and beguiling.

Enjolras could not disregard his very nature; he was duty bound to help free his country from her shackles, just has he was duty bound to remain at home with his family. He was torn two ways, morally obligated to follow both paths - paths that veered in opposite directions from each other, and could never meet.

It felt to Enjolras that he was caught at an impossible crossroad; whatever he decided he would be failing someone in doing so.

Grantaire continued to make improvement as the weeks went by - so much so that there were days when he gave the impression of perfect health, and the elegant cane Courfeyrac had selected for him was little more than a mark of fashion. On those days Enjolras thought more of returning to Paris; Grantaire would be able to cope.

But then there were the bad days – the days when he woke in an agonized sweat, unable to leave the bed and needing Enjolras to distract him from his pain and bring him his meals.

He could have entrusted his care to Marceline, for she was more than competent enough to manage the task, but Enjolras knew at heart that nobody would be a better nurse to Grantaire than he would.

Still, Enjolras observed that there were more good days than bad, and he would take the good with gratitude and the bad with grace.

“It may always be this way for him,” Combeferre had informed Enjolras when he had brought it up with him, “The pain will come and go. There will be times that he is quite well, and others when it is more difficult to manage.”

The idea of leaving Grantaire to face those hard times alone so that he could go chasing some vision of the future in Paris was unthinkable – and yet, it crossed Enjolras' mind.

 

-

 

The warm days rolled on, lazy and long, and with Combeferre and Courfeyrac planning to return to Paris at the start of August Enjolras found himself running on borrowed time. At some point the matter would come up, and when it did he would be forced to decide where his heart truly lay.

One afternoon he ventured into the garden to find Courfeyrac and Grantaire sitting together, poking good-naturedly at each other as they played dominoes.

It was hard to see such warmth between them; soon Courfeyrac would be gone, and Enjolras forced to choose between husband and brothers.

It was one of Grantaire's good days, and he was in high spirits as a result, his cane resting idly against the side of the table.

“A pitifully poor play,” Courfeyrac commented, setting down his domino, “You seem out of practice at this.”

“Yes, yes, I know; it is hardly my fault.” Grantaire said, furrowing his brow in concentration, “I have had no one to play against for years. I attempted to teach Enjolras how to play in the hopes he might humour me with the occasional game, but he is a hopeless cause.”

Courfeyrac sniggered, “Yes - Games were never Enjolras' forte.”

“Not in the slightest, though he can hold his own at draughts at least moderately; we have passed many a rainy afternoon that way. It is all he is good at, though; he has a terrible face for cards, he betrays too much emotion. He is a shambles at Écarté.”

Courfeyrac gave a little nod, “It is a fortunate thing he was not cursed with the urge to gamble,” he said, “Else he would be a very poor man for it.”

“I am within earshot,” Enjolras said, startling them both and taking a seat beside Grantaire at the table, “And any failure to learn is surely the flaw of the teacher and not the student.”

Grantaire took Enjolras' hand, lifting it to his lips to kiss his knuckles apologetically, “A fortunate thing that it is you educating the children then, if I am so poor of a teacher. And I pray, do not trouble yourself to learn games if you do not want to – I have Courfeyrac to lose money to, now.”

“Not too much, I hope,” Enjolras smiled, opening up the book he had brought out with him, “Continue, then; do not stop on account of me.”

Grantaire laughed, playing his turn; one hand remained on the table, closely guarding his pieces, but the other went to rest on Enjolras' inner thigh beneath the table. He felt his face redden, scowling as he attempted to focus on his reading. It had been so long since they had last been intimate in such a way, and the more Enjolras tried to ignore the constant pressure of Grantaire's hand against his leg the more aware of it he became, until base need was all but burning underneath his skin. With Courfeyrac sat just opposite them it was practically obscene.

“I think you'll find that is my win,” Courfeyrac said as he placed down a domino, beaming triumphantly, “Better luck next time, my friend!”

Grantaire, evidently fully conscious of what he was doing to Enjolras, took the loss with tremendous civility, “Ah, a pity, a shame, but well won!”

“It was a little _too_ easy a win for my liking,” Courfeyrac said, gaze flitting knowingly to Enjolras, “One might dare presume that you were distracted by something...”

“Me, distracted? Not so,” Grantaire waved the idea away, “I am the least distractable person I have ever met! I am impressed with your game, Monsieur - I would have thought _you_ the more distracted one, of late...”

“Me?”

“Well, you and Combeferre have been especially close recently, have you not?” A devilish grin found it's way to Grantaire's face, “Almost too close for propriety, one might say.”

“Slander,” Courfeyrac jested, “You have no proof.”

“No, I do not – only that I know the number of bedrooms in my home, and that you and Combeferre are sharing one needlessly.”

Courfeyrac turned beet red; it was a remarkable sight, and one Enjolras made a note to commit to memory. He had witnessed Courfeyrac boast of his conquests many times before without even the slightest hint of colour in his cheeks. He had no shame where sex was concerned; it was curious that his dalliance with Combeferre was different.

Courfeyrac recovered swiftly, attempting to appear flippant about the matter, “I suppose there may be some truth to it...”

“Only a little, I am sure,” Grantaire said, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Of course. Enjolras, are you quite well?” Courfeyrac asked, changing the subject as he gathered the dominoes together to reshuffle them, “You seem somewhat red as well...”

“It is this sun,” Enjolras excused, shooting Grantaire a warning look.

“If you say so,” Courfeyrac said, toying with a domino, “It is your birthday at the end of this month, it not?”

“Yes.” Enjolras confirmed, immediately disliking the direction the conversation was taking.

“Shall we do something to celebrate?” Courfeyrac said, looking between him and Grantaire, “Surely this sleepy town has something by way of entertainment? Or else, why not take a trip back into Paris for a few days?” he suggested, “We could dine with Pontmercy and his wife again.”

Enjolras felt his stomach coil with doubt; he did not think it wise to venture back to Paris, even for a few days. The more time he spent there stronger the desire to return would become, until it was all-consuming and the choice was taken out of his hands. Paris had an effect on Enjolras that he could not deny; perhaps it had not been far from the truth when his friends had teased that the city was his mistress. It certainly felt that way now – to even think of going back there felt as though it would be committing adultery against Grantaire.

He gripped the edge of the table, forcing a smile to his face.

“I will not be celebrating it much; thirty-one is hardly a number of any significance,” He said dismissively, “I am not really one for such things, these days. Every year that I gain is a year more than our friends had, and I do not want to be reminded of it - especially not in Paris.”

The brightness faded from Courfeyrac's eyes at this, “Ah,” he said, “Well. That is fair.”

Grantaire removed his hand from Enjolras' thigh, instead lacing their fingers together tightly. Enjolras felt guilt pool in his gut at the silent gesture of support; Grantaire was always so understanding, always so present. He deserved a far finer spouse than Enjolras.

“It's too hot to sit out here,” he said suddenly, closing his book and getting to his feet, “I think I will go inside to read.”

Grantaire nodded, kissing his hand, “We shall be out here if you need us.”

 

-

 

Enjolras spent the rest of the day in his study, wrestling with himself as he penned a letter to Renaud and Claudel informing them that he would not be returning to Paris.

When he was all but finished he stared down at the letter, his pen hovering over it like the blade of the guillotine over a condemned man. The analogy was not entirely exaggerated, for in Enjolras' mind finishing the letter with his name would be like signing the warrant for his own execution.

To refuse their offer of involving himself in their plans was to murder a part of himself with the stroke of a pen.

Renaud, Claudel and the likes of their group would not welcome back a man who was inconsistent; once the letter was sent and received it would be done.

He thought suddenly of Grantaire, and his surprise when he saw that he had returned from Paris. He thought of his children - of Camille, clinging to him desperately as he sweat out his fever, of François, with his dreams of being a doctor, of Marianne, an infant who did not even recognise him.

He had been so willing to sacrifice them – so reckless and careless with the love he had been blessed with.

It was time for a different kind of martydom, he decided; he put his pen to the paper, signing off his name with an elegant flourish.

 

-

 

It was growing dark outside when he finally retired to bed, finding their bedroom empty when he entered it. Grantaire was still passing idle time in revelry with Courfeyrac, it seemed. He was glad; Courfeyrac could offer him the sort of entertainment Enjolras could not, for he had no taste for gambling. He set the letter down on his dresser and went about changing into his nightshirt, braiding back his hair. He would send it to Claudel in the morning, he told himself.

It would have been easy to dispose of it – simple enough to light the hearth and dispose of it in the flames, to watch it wither and shrink and disappear into ash and go to Paris with his friends when the time came. It would have been easy, effortless, and yet Enjolras let it be.

It was for the best this way.

Though the night was creeping in the heat was still unbearable, even with the sash windows open and the doors to the balconet back wide. The evening smelled sweet, of honeysuckle and orchids, but the stifling air was damp and uncomfortable, sticking his nightshirt to his skin. Turning his back on the letter he made his way out onto the balconet, welcoming the feeling of the cool air against his skin. It was a pleasant distraction from the conflict raging in his heart.

He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his elbows on the railing and listening to the sounds of the countryside; calm silence, broken only by the chirping of insects and occasional rustle of wildlife in the garden.

He stretched out one hand as though to touch the air, trying to imagine for a moment that it was not endless fields but Paris sprawling out before him. In his head he bid the city a silent goodbye, and for a moment he could almost see himself there once more. It was the closest thing to a farewell he would get.

It was Grantaire opening the bedroom door that brought him out of his reverie, followed by the sounds of him kicking off his shoes and no doubt abandoning them on the floor in the middle of the room as he always did.

“This heat is sweltering!” he complained loudly, “I think I am quite possibly about to succumb to it; how tragic that I should survive scarlatina only to fall victim to a heatwave! Alas, I have brought up some cool water for us both, in the hopes we may survive a little longer.”

Enjolras smiled slightly to himself, “Thank you.”

“What are you doing out here?” Grantaire asked, closer, and then there were arms around him, and the pleasant pressure of Grantaire's body up against his back.

“I was just getting some fresh air.” he said, allowing himself to sink into the feeling. He would always miss Paris, yes - but with all that had happened of late, Grantaire's arms were a far more compelling place to be.

“It is a fine evening,” Grantaire agreed, looking out into the darkness over Enjolras' shoulder, “There are so many stars tonight! But no moon, it seems,” he observed, “Artemis has turned her face from us, likely bashful – she is the goddess of chastity and virginity, after all, and I confess that I am feeling amorous this evening.”

“There are the same number of stars tonight as there are every other night - there are just fewer clouds in the sky.” Enjolras said, smiling wryly, “I pray, do not let Combeferre hear you talking so foolishly of astronomy. He takes it very seriously.”

“Ah, indulge me, will you not?” Grantaire complained, “I confess with shame that there is a little of the Romantics in me, though I do my best to disown myself from poetry.”

“Oh I know,” Enjolras laughed, “It is quite insufferable.”

“Yet you endure it with great dignity, mon coeur. I cannot abide it, myself. I have spent a great deal of time professing to be a sceptic, and here I am talking of starlight and moon goddesses!”

“And your amorous nature,” Enjolras said, amused, “Are you not in far too much pain for such matters?”

“No, not at present - I feel sprightly as a young boy! I think perhaps that the warmth helps some.”

“That is good...”

“Indeed it is. Will you dance with me?” Grantaire's breath was warm against Enjolras' neck, sending shivers down the length of his spine. He felt his hands settle on his waist.

“Dance with you?” Enjolras could not help the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips, “Is that truly what you mean?”

“Of course! Why? What manner of scandal are you implying, Monsieur?” Grantaire said, voice lofty with mock outrage.

“The sort of scandal that I am quite sure you'd gladly put your name to." 

“Nonsense, I am as chaste as a nun!” Grantaire exclaimed, undermining his words significantly by starting to lift the bottom of Enjolras' nightshirt. 

“It has been a long time,” Enjolras pointed out, suddenly unexpectedly timid as he felt Grantaire's hands against the skin of his thighs, “I fear I may have rather forgotten the steps...”

“Oh you will remember them easily enough I am sure...” Grantaire said, his lips just beneath his ear, “Dancing comes very naturally. You simply need a skilled partner to arouse your memory.”

Enjolras tipped his head back, “And you are kind enough to volunteer your time to that end, I presume...?”

“Well, if you think me the right man for the job...” Grantaire's voice wavered a little, as though his confidence had faltered, “You are right, though,” he said, “It has been a long time. I do not even think I can recall when it was...”

“It has been over year at the least.”

“That is far too long. We ought to remedy it immediately,” Grantaire decided breathlessly, his intentions patently clear.

Enjolras turned to face him, cupping Grantaire's face with both hands and meeting him with equal fervour as he brought their lips crashing together. His body arched into his with instinctive grace, the two of them fitting together so perfectly that Enjolras thought Grantaire was not entirely incorrect in his euphemism of the word 'dance'. Despite all the ways in which he and Grantaire clashed, the bedroom was territory where they had always complimented each other well.

It had been a laughable discovery, in those early days – they differed in so many ways, and had been at odds the entirety of the time they had known each other, but as lovers? As lovers they were gloriously compatible.

Enjolras broke the kiss, guiding Grantaire back into the bedroom in the direction of their bed.

“I will never leave you again,” he swore, and part of him longed to tell Grantaire what he had decided – how he had signed off on his revolutionary spirit, how he was going to set down his flintlock for good. He wanted him to know that he would never let them be parted again - not by death, not by dreams or even by Paris and all her allure. If Patria truly was his mistress then Enjolras was vowing to be faithful henceforth. 

He wanted to tell him all this and more, but then Grantaire's hand was between his legs, fingers exploring him boldly, and he as good as forgot his own name.

 

-

 

Enjolras sighed contentedly, touching his fingertips gently to Grantaire's as they lay exhausted beside each other, too warm to hold each other and breathing heavily in tandem. The room was suffocating, the air a musky perfume of sweat and desire and all the sweetness of the garden flowers that blew in on the evening breeze.

It was Grantaire who broke the silence first, still short of breath, “My god,” he said, dazed with satisfaction, “I have missed you terribly...”

“I have been back home for months now.” Enjolras reminded him, arching one eyebrow, “You are only now realising that you missed me?” he smirked, “I am insulted...”

Grantaire chuckled, “That is not what I mean,” he said, “I have missed _this_ ,”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

The teasing edge disappeared from Grantaire's voice, his expression suddenly growing serious, “I have missed the closeness of this - of feeling your heart against my chest, your nails along my back, your skin on mine. I have missed _you_.”

Enjolras rolled over onto his side to face him, heart aching, “I am sorry that I left,” he said, sure that he would never be able to apologise enough for it if he lived to be a hundred years old, “Especially with all that happened when I was gone...”

“None of that was your fault,” Grantaire said, “Do not blame yourself for that. We would have become sick with or without you here, no doubt - I am only glad you were not here to get sick too.”

“But I still abandoned you," Enjolras argued. 

“Well, I shall not deny that it was thoughtless of you, but I know that I did not help the matter, with my words and my drinking. I ought not have tried to stop you from going. Combeferre was right; you belong in Paris.”

“A part of me does,” Enjolras confessed, “But only a part. I belong with my family. I belong with _you_.” he closed his eyes, “I confess that I feel constantly that I am torn in two – that half of me is in Paris, fighting for the future, and half of me is here, at home with you and the children. But I have made my decision, Grantaire, and I swear to you that I will stay...”

“You needn't.”

“Grantaire---”

“I mean it. You needn't stay here; there is a simple remedy for your pain. I am no doctor, no, but I feel the cure should be obvious enough.” Grantaire said quietly, “Let us make things easier for you; let us reunite both of those parts of you, and let them reconcile, as we have done.”

Enjolras opened his eyes, lost; “I do not understand...?”

“We shall move to Paris, if it pleases you. All of us.”

Enjolras stared at him, so taken aback that for a moment he could not even form words.

“I...are you serious?” he whispered, when his voice finally returned to him.

“For once, yes. Completely so.”

“But I thought that you were happy here?”

“I am. But I could be happy in Paris too, if it pleased you to be there,” Grantaire shrugged, looking strangely coy, “I am happiest wherever you are happiest, Enjolras – I thought you knew that. I would follow you to the world's end if I had to. And perhaps the move would do our children good – they can get a true Parisian education, which I am certain you would approve of greatly.”

Enjolras felt his heart skip a beat.

He had never imagined his two lives could coexist, and he had never dared suggest it, certain that after all Grantaire had done for him over the years he had no right to ask such a thing of him.

He threw his arms around Grantaire, pulling him close and peppering his face with kisses, apparently to Grantaire's utter surprise.

“Thank you...” he said, over and over like a mantra.

Grantaire smiled, prying himself free for a moment, “There is nothing to thank me for...”

“Yes there is,” Enjolras insisted, “You have stood by my side through all my anguish all these years. Through fear and sickness and childbirth and argument. Through revolution and failure.” he brought Grantaire's hand to his chest, placing it over his heart as though he thought he might be able to feel how full it felt, “And now you say that we can return to Paris, as a family? I have been blessed with the best of husbands.”

Grantaire turned red at his praise, ducking his head down almost bashfully.

“I would not go so far as to say that,” he said, “I simply wish to see you happy..."

“I am.” Enjolras assured him, sure that the joy he was feeling must have been radiating off him, a physical sort of glow that could be seen by the naked eye.

“Good. Then I have done my duty to you, as your husband,” Grantaire decided, still flush-faced.

"You have no duty to me, not after all the trials I have made you endure."

"I chose to endure them," Grantaire said softly, "When I wed you I wed every part of you. Every incarnation, in every lifetime."

"So it was not just for propriety, then, seeing as I was with child?" Enjolras said playfully.

"No," Grantaire said, eyes sparkling, "Though that was the excuse I gave; I did not want you to suspect I was the sentimental sort. You would never have married me, otherwise..."

Enjolras grinned, kissing him hard on the lips, "Thank you," he said again.

"I am glad that you are pleased, but you needn't keep thanking me..."

Enjolras nodded, "If you say so," he said, pushing Grantaire gently onto his back, “But I can certainly think of a few things that I can do for you to make _you_ happy,” he said, hoping that the sultry edge to his voice would say for him what he did not have the confidence to say aloud.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows in surprised delight, “Oh?”

“It has been a long time.” Enjolras reminded him, looking down at him through heavy-lidded eyes, “I missed more than just your company when in Paris...” he said, trailing one hand slowly down Grantaire's chest, over his stomach, past his navel...

“ _Oh,_ ” Grantaire inhaled sharply, turning crimson, “Well,” he said, struggling to compose himself, “We shall simply have to make up for lost time, then.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get it, Grantaire. Good for you, buddy. If anyone deserves a 'thank you' blowjob it's you.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly sex jokes honestly.

Combeferre was startled when he came face-to-face with Grantaire in the kitchen early the next morning, when the sun had only just broken over the horizon and golden light was spilling into the room. Combeferre had always been an early riser, but from what he had come to learn of Grantaire, the man rarely left his bed until well past ten.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, taken aback.

“Am I not allowed in my own kitchen, Monsieur?”

“Forgive me, that is not what I meant,” Combeferre said, amending himself, “What are you doing up so early?”

Grantaire gave a sly smile at the question, and Combeferre immediately wished he had not asked.

“Just putting together some breakfast for my beloved,” he said casually, pointing to the plate of fruit and pastries he was holding, “Do not trouble yourself. I know that I am awake early, but do not fear; I am not succumbing to madness. Your doctorly skills are not required at present.”

“That is good to know...” Combeferre said, looking him up and down; his hair was a mess and he wore nothing but a loose nightshirt that, thankfully, came down to his knees. Perhaps a few moments too late Combeferre made the connection between his appearance and suspiciously early rise, feeling his face grow hot as he did.

“Did you get a good look, Monsieur?” Grantaire inquired, raising one eyebrow and gesturing to himself with a flourish, “If you like what you see you shall have to line up behind Enjolras, I am afraid...” he smirked.

Combeferre frowned, “I will pass, thank you,” he said, stepping around him to get coffee, “Is Enjolras awake, then?”

“Partially. He is still quite tired, but I do believe I saw him stir when I left the room. I would go and speak with him, if I were you,” Grantaire suggested, leaning against the table, “He has some very fine news for you.”

Combeferre looked at him doubtfully, “Is he decent?”

“He is wearing a nightshirt, but I am sure he won't care if you see him in a slight state of undress,” Grantaire reached across Combeferre to snatch another pastry from the side, “You have seen him give birth, I don't think he'll be too ruffled about his bare ankles, my friend.”

For a second Combeferre found himself caught off guard; it was the first time Grantaire had referred to them as friends without a note of scorn behind it.

“Well,” he said, recovering quickly, “I shall go and speak with him then, if you think it wise...”

“Oh I do.” Grantaire said, stuffing a whole macaron into his mouth, “Do knock loudly though, Monsieur,” he said though his food, “He may be in a _deep_ sleep following last night, do make sure he should hear you.”

 

-

 

Combeferre hesitated when he reached Enjolras and Grantaire's bedroom, pausing for a moment before he knocked on the door; Enjolras answered almost immediately, his curls in an almost comical state of disarray and a dark, unmistakable look in his eyes that Combeferre quite frankly wished he'd never seen.

“What took so lo---oh.” His cheeks turned crimson when he saw it was Combeferre standing in the hallway and not Grantaire.

"Enjolras."

"Combeferre. Good morning..." he stepped aside to let him in, attempting surreptitiously to neaten up his hair.

“Forgive the intrusion, I beg. Grantaire told me it would be alright to call on you,” Combeferre said, trying to avoid looking around at the state of the room.

“It's no intrusion,” Enjolras insisted, tucking a curl behind his ear, “What can I do for you?”

“Grantaire said that you had news for me.”

At this Enjolras' face lit up, “Oh,” he said, “Well, he is correct,” he took Combeferre's hands with his own, eyes glowing, “We are moving to Paris. Grantaire and I, and the children.”

Combeferre blinked slowly, quite certain for a moment that he must have misheard him.

“I...truly?”

“Yes,” Enjolras nodded enthusiastically, “We will go back with you as soon as we have our affairs in order regarding the house and whathaveyou...”

“So you shall be in Paris permanently?” Combeferre whispered.

“Yes, yes,” Enjolras laughed, “Is it not wonderful? It was Grantaire's suggestion, can you believe?”

Yes; Combeferre could believe that very easily. Grantaire would have carved his own heart out of his chest and offered it up on a silver platter if he'd thought it might please Enjolras for him to do so.

Combeferre smiled, his spirit soaring to see such joy on Enjolras' face; for too long now his expressions, however happy, had been marred by momentary shadows of guilt and conflict.

“I am so glad of it, Enjolras,” he said honestly, “Courfeyrac and I shall help you find accommodation; there are rooms close to ours that would be well-suited to you...”

Enjolras threw his arms around him, almost pulling Combeferre down with the force, “Thank you! I feel as though I could weep!”

“Well I pray, do not do so on me,” Combeferre said with a chuckle, prying himself free; he suddenly became very aware that Enjolras was all but nude in his thin nightshirt, turning around on the spot at once, “But, ah, you may wish to dress yourself a little more before you do anything else...”

“No point!” Grantaire cried as he entered the room, holding the door open with his hip as he carried in a tray of food and coffee, “Do not tell my husband what to do, Monsieur; I rather like him that way.”

He set the tray down on the nightstand, looking to Combeferre and Enjolras, “Are you done sharing the news, my love?”

Enjolras nodded, “Combeferre is very happy for us,” he said, “He is going to help us arrange more permanent lodging in Paris,”

“Excellent.” Grantaire said, picking out a fig from the plate of fruit, “Will you leave us be now, Monsieur?” he asked, taking a very deliberate bite of the fig and looking directly at Combeferre as he did so, “I am planning to keep Enjolras in bed for rather a while longer...”

Enjolras flushed, ushering Combeferre towards the door, “Perhaps you should go and sit in the garden,” he said, “It is a lovely day...”

Combeferre would gladly take his leave; he didn't wish to be there any longer than necessary given Grantaire's plans.

“I shall be out there with Courfeyrac...” he said, as he stepped out into the hallway, “When you are ready to venture out of here, any way...”

“Do not wait around.” Grantaire said, selecting an apple from the tray and throwing it to Combeferre, who caught it, baffled; “A parting gift, Doctor,” he said with an exaggerated bow, closing the door on Combeferre and leaving him stood there with red cheeks and an apple in one hand.

 

-

 

It was almost embarrassingly late in the day when Enjolras and Grantaire finally left their bedroom and joined Combeferre and Courfeyrac in the garden for a late lunch of smoked fish, olives and bread. Combeferre had already told Courfeyrac of Enjolras and Grantaire's plans to accompany them to Paris, the two of them embracing tightly and sharing in their glee and excitement over the development like a pair of children.

“Did you both sleep well?” Courfeyrac teased as they took their seats, his eyes bright.

“Oh yes, very,” Grantaire said, feigning a yawn, “I am still rather sleepy-eyed...”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac snickered, “Combeferre has given me your news,” he added, nodding to Enjolras, “I am so pleased, truly...”

“As am I.” Enjolras beamed.

“And I,” Grantaire put in, “I think I ought to move to Paris every week, given the reception my suggestion received...”

Enjolras swatted his arm, his cheeks scarlet, “Oh, hush...”

“Will you not miss your home here?” Courfeyrac asked Grantaire conversationally as he spread butter on some bread.

“A little,” Grantaire said, taking a sip of water, “There are things about the countryside that I am quite fond of. It is peaceful, and the landscape is pleasant to paint. I like the woods and the river.” he said, “And at times, when the stables in town are quiet and there are no people around to ask questions about Enjolras, we take two horses and go riding together.”

Courfeyrac grinned, glancing at Enjolras, “Horse riding? Forgive me, but I did not think you found any enjoyment in such things...?”

Enjolras took a bite of his food, not looking up, “It can be pleasant in the summer, on days like this.”

“Enjolras rides exceptionally well,” Grantaire remarked, and the look on his face was utterly incorrigible; it was clear he was no longer discussing horses.

Courfeyrac almost choked on his water, “I am sure he does!” he said, clearly struggling to keep his composure long enough to deliver his own jibe; “And here I thought you only knew how to ride side-saddle, Enjolras...”

Grantaire exploded into a fit of laughter; even Combeferre had to concede that he could not help but smirk at the comment.

Enjolras clipped the back of Courfeyrac's head, cheeks scarlet.

“You are both terrible.” he decided, “The two of you to spending time together was easily the worst misfortune to ever befall me.”

“And now you shall have to put up with much more of it in Paris,” Courfeyrac said, slinging one arm around Grantaire's shoulders, “I always did enjoy your company, Grand R,”

"How fortunate I am. What Grantaire failed to tell you about the horse riding is that we have not done it for over a year because I was tired of tending to all his wounds," Enjolras sniffed.

Courfeyrac looked at Grantaire for explanation, "Oh?"

"Yes." Enjolras said, "Because Grantaire - famously self-depreciating Grantaire - is an obnoxious show-off on horseback."

"My family had stables in Auvergne," Grantaire said, looking a little embarrassed, "I am good at it."

"You are," Enjolras agreed, "But what you are not good at is knowing when to hold off. Do you remember when you attempted to jump that gate?"

"Oh, yes," Grantaire sniggered, "I came hurtling off backwards, didn't I?" he turned to Courfeyrac, "Fortunately for me there was a vast swathe of bushes to catch my fall..."

"Yes. Less fortunately for you they were stinging nettles." Enjolras grinned, "I had to walk both horses back with you shirtless and complaining the whole way home."

Combeferre smiled a little as he heard them recount the story; sometimes, since finding Enjolras again, it was easy to forget that he had had a life here for the last eight years - a life with Grantaire, full of memories and stories. He made a note that one day he would ask him more about it.

“When will you tell the children of your plans?” He asked, diverting the subject away from Grantaire's folly before Enjolras was subjected to even more teasing from Courfeyrac.

“Later,” Enjolras decided, glancing over at Camille and François, who were currently trying to catch the butterflies that flitted around the garden flowers, “Camille shall be delighted, but François less, I feel.”

“Why so?”

“You have met the child, have you not? He is quiet.”

“So were you when you first came to Paris, I recall,” Combeferre said, smiling wistfully at the memory, “Paris may yet be the making of the boy.”

“I hope so,” Enjolras murmured, watching his children fondly, “Perhaps, when you have the opportunity, you could show him around your clinic?” he coaxed, “I know he would like that...”

“Maybe,” Combeferre agreed, silently uncertain; he wasn't entirely sure that four was an appropriate age to be seeing people with the sort of monstrous injuries and afflictions that his clinic saw on a regular basis. But then again, for all his shyness François was still Enjolras' child, and somehow Combeferre doubted any offspring of Enjolras' would balk at the sight of blood.

 

-

 

The next week passed in a frantic blur as Enjolras and Grantaire went about settling their affairs in the countryside; Enjolras saw to it that his parents' monthly allowance would be transferred to a bank in Paris, and Grantaire wrote reluctantly to his family to inform them of the move.

'I am only doing so out of love for my sisters,' he had enlightened Combeferre as he sealed the last of the letters, 'My mother and father can be damned for all that I care.'

'Will we ever have the pleasure of meeting the charming Mademoiselles Grantaire? Or, else, Señoritas? You are half Spanish, are you not?' Courfeyrac had asked with an impish smile, 'I would love the honour of introducing myself to them both...'

'Do not think to talk of them crudely, even in jest,' Grantaire had snapped, taking both Combeferre and Courfeyrac by surprise; it seemed the honour of his sisters was where Grantaire drew the line at taunts.

'They are fine women – far finer than either of my parents or myself. And I would like for them to visit Paris, truly I would, but my father would not allow such a thing.'

'Ah,'

Courfeyrac had left it at that and not brought it up again.

Enjolras had been right about how the children would take the news; Camille had been overjoyed and François hesitant, though the little boy had brightened considerably at the promise of a tour of Combeferre's clinic.

Courfeyrac kept the two boys busy as the arrangements were made, and the sight of him with them both filled Combeferre with a bittersweet sort of feeling. In his opinion he had never seen anyone so well suited to fatherhood, and yet, in choosing to love Combeferre Courfeyrac had sacrificed any possibility of having a family of his own. It seemed unfair that Enjolras – who did not care much for children – had within him the power to create life, and he and Courfeyrac – who would, in his humble opinion, have made fine parents – through the bitter nature of biology, did not.

Combeferre watched as Courfeyrac fawned over Marianne, who at seven months was all wheat-gold curls and deep blue eyes and looked at Courfeyrac as though he was the reason the sun rose in the morning, and felt a pang of longing within his chest.

“Perhaps Enjolras would allow us to have her?” Courfeyrac joked, settling the baby in his lap as he sat on the parlour floor in a pool of sunlight.

“I do not doubt that he actually would,” Combeferre said, smiling dolefully, “But I think Grantaire would sooner lose a limb than part with her any time soon.”

Courfeyrac gave a weak laugh, handing a little wooden rattle to Marianne, who grabbed it and shook it with furious determination.

“Ah, a little musician!” he cried, elated, “Enjolras! Enjolras, come here – I have made your cherub of a daughter proficient in her first musical instrument!”

“I am busy at the moment,” Enjolras said, ducking his head into the room from the hall, “I am arranging the transportation of my books. It is a sensitive matter, that requires some discretion.”

“Of course...” Courfeyrac said, deflating slightly and turning to Marianne as Enjolras went back to his task, “Perhaps one day, little one,” he said sadly, ruffling her hair.

 

-

 

It did not take long to make most of the necessary plans for their return to Paris; they arranged their lodgings via post and had their belongings sent on ahead of them, leaving the country house all but stripped bare.

“What do you plan to do with the house itself?” Combeferre asked a few nights before they were due to leave for Paris, his voice echoing in the empty parlour.

“We shall keep it for now, I suppose,” Enjolras said, “We can survive well enough on my parents' allowance, and so we are in no particular hurry to sell it. I will miss this place, I confess.” he looked around the room almost mournfully, “I have lived here for nine years, after all...”

“Do you have any regrets about the move?”

“None at all,” Enjolras said firmly, “Paris is my true home.”

The night before they left - three days before Enjolras' birthday - the four of them found themselves seated in the garden once again, enjoying the warm night air and the tranquillity that came with it.

“I will miss the smell of this place.” Courfeyrac sighed, “Paris does not smell half so sweet.”

“I rather like it,” Enjolras said.

“You would!” Courfeyrac snorted, “Paris is your mistress, of course you should find her perfume enticing!”

Enjolras lay one hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder to silence him, sitting up a little straighter in his seat as he saw Marceline making her way towards them from the house.

“Are the children alright...?”

“Yes, Monsieur. They are sleeping soundly, despite all the excitement of the morrow. But Monsieur, I must speak with you,” she said, taking Enjolras' hand and pulling him to his feet, “I have given it much thought, and though I am honoured by the offer I am afraid I cannot accompany you to Paris tomorrow...”

Combeferre saw the devastated expression that crossed Enjolras' face, and it caught him off guard. He had not known quite how highly Enjolras thought of the young midwife until then, so prone to hiding his emotions as his friend was.

“Oh,” he said, voice faint, “I see...”

“I am sorry,” Marceline said, “Truly. But my family is here, and my skills are needed. Paris has many midwives and housemaids...”

“But none so loyal as you,” Enjolras said, eyes downcast, “I shall miss you terribly. Your friendship has been most appreciated, Marceline..."

Marceline squeezed his hand, “I shall miss you as well. You have been family to me, these past years,” she said.

“I shall not try to change your mind with regards to accompanying us,” Enjolras promised, “But please – do write.”

“Of course I shall. I wish to hear all about the city. And here,” Marceline dug into the pocket of her apron, pressing a small scrap of folded paper into his hand, “I assume you shall need to employ someone else discreet and trustworthy; I have a friend in Paris, a girl I went to school with. I have written to her of your circumstances, and I feel you might find her a suitable fit to replace me...”

“She shall not be replacing you – only fulfilling your duties.” Enjolras said, embracing her tightly, propriety thrown to the wayside.

Combeferre recalled the vicious way Marceline had rebuked him for his foolishness when Enjolras had been in labour, and suddenly he understood. She was quiet and proper, but beneath the surface a fire burned in her that was almost reminiscent of some of the women who had gone to the barricades in 1832. In another world she would have been a worthy revolutionary, and perhaps Enjolras saw that too. Perhaps, even, he felt a sort of kinship with her.

With that Marceline headed back into the house and Enjolras went back to their conversation as though nothing had happened. Combeferre watched the midwife go, fancying he saw her dab at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Grantaire totally pulled a 'an apple a day keeps the doctor away' joke on Combeferre. The phrase itself wasn't coined until 1860 but there were earlier 19th century incarnations of it with very similar meaning, so it's historically appropriate.


	17. Chapter 17

The weather was glorious when their coach entered Paris, as though the city were welcoming Enjolras back with open arms. The sun sparkled off the surface of the Seine, and all through the streets flower-sellers were peddling their merchandise, offering carnations to passing lovers and then demanding a sou when they were foolish enough to take one.

“At least they shall not target us,” Grantaire said light-heartedly, leaning to look out of the window, “One of the unexpected benefits of our less than conventional arrangement...”

Enjolras shook his head, linking his arm with Grantaire's and looking over at Camille and François, asleep opposite them; getting them out of the house and into the carriage early that morning had been an ordeal, not least because François had clung to Marceline when he learned that she would not be going with them, wailing and refusing to let go of her skirts.

“Do you think they will be alright here?” he whispered.

“I do not know.” Grantaire said, perhaps a little too honestly for Enjolras' liking, “But they are your sons, after all; with your blood in their veins I am sure they will come to love Paris as you do.”

The rooms they had rented were modest, as was Enjolras' preference, but still finely furnished (mostly their own things, which had arrived the day before they had,) and perfectly adequate for their family's needs. There was a study that Enjolras vowed to make good use of, and in the parlour stood an old piano that had come with the house.

“You can play very beautifully," Grantaire said when he saw it, tapping out a few thoughtful notes.

“I suppose,” Enjolras said, somewhat reluctantly, “Well enough to teach Camille, anyway. My mother insisted that I learn. She wished for me to be well accomplished in such things, in the hopes it would make me more agreeable to potential suitors. A great deal of good that did; I threatened to castrate every man who came courting with a letter opener..." he could not help but smile smugly to himself as he recounted it, "No amount of musical prowess can dress that up as an appealing prospect."

“Well, I certainly find you agreeable. Most of the time, at least,” Grantaire smirked, “There are times when you are quite _disagreeable_ , but I am generous enough to look past those occasions. And I am grateful that you have not taken a letter opener to my loins - well, at least not yet."

“There is still time; I have said that I do not want any more children.” Enjolras teased, “Why did you comment, anyhow?”

“On your ability to play? I had hoped you might grace me with a song, sometime.” Grantaire admitted, running one hand all the way along the keys to produce a godawful sound.

“Perhaps,” Enjolras said, “Now if you are done trying to deafen me, we have things that need organising.”

“Do not look to me,” Grantaire said, tapping his cane loudly on the floor as though to draw attention to it, “I am an invalid, remember?”

 

-

 

The master bedroom was spacious and airy, with a grand four-poster bed in the middle of the room and a balconet looking over down onto the street. There was a fireplace and mantle along one wall, and a wide, ornate armoire along another.

“These rooms are just one street over from our own,” Courfeyrac remarked cheerfully as he carried a trunk of clothes into the room.

“I am glad,” Enjolras said, brushing one hand along the silk of the bed curtains, “We will not be strangers,” he promised.

“Good, else you would have me to answer to,” Courfeyrac said, opening up the trunk; Enjolras watched as he began to sort through it, wrinkling his nose with disapproval as he pulled out garment after garment.

“My god Enjolras, you are terribly out of fashion!” he declared, “The cut on this coat is disgraceful---and what colour does this waistcoat presume it is?”

Enjolras puffed up his chest a little indignantly, “I have not had the opportunity to have myself fitted for new clothing in years...”

“You do not need to tell me that!” Courfeyrac said, “This shirt here looks as though it has been repaired no less than a dozen times!”

“It has. The only good my mother's sewing lessons ever did me.” Enjolras mumbled, sitting down on the bed to test the mattress.

“This is not good at all,” Courfeyrac decided, dropping the garments back into the trunk, “We shall have to rectify this immediately. I insist upon taking you shopping tomorrow; we shall get you some new outfits. Bring Grantaire along, too; I do not even wish to imagine the state of _his_ wardrobe. I shall not have any friends of mine walking around Paris in poor fashion.”

“Embarassed to be seen with us?” Enjolras said scathingly.

“Not at all,” Courfeyrac said, “But you know how this city is, dear brother. She is all about first impressions, and if you want to make waves in our circles you shall need to look the part. You used to be very well-dressed.”

“Walking into a tailor is a great risk for me,” Enjolras reminded him, fidgeting slightly, “It puts my shape and size under scrutiny.”

“Well I know a very fine tailor, and I pay him well enough that he would not dare breathe a word if he suspects anything out of the ordinary. He is very discreet where business is concerned.” Courfeyrac said, glancing down into the trunk again, “No red, I see?”

“No...” Enjolras said, suddenly uncomfortable, “After that June I could not stand the colour.”

“It looks very well on you, my friend...”

“Too well. And I do not wish to waste money on new clothes – my old ones will be adequate for a little longer...”

“Nonsense,” Courfeyrac said, “I will cover the bill; it is your birthday in just a few short days, let me do this for you.” he urged.

“Very well.” Enjolras said, “I suppose there is no arguing with you where fashion is concerned.”

“There isn't,” Courfeyrac agreed with a lopsided grin, “Anyhow, I contacted Pontmercy, prior to our arrival; I have invited he and his wife to dinner in a few days to celebrate, if that is alright with you?”

Enjolras stiffened a little, “Will they not wonder about my wife?”

Courfeyrac blinked, “Oh---oh, I forgot about that matter. Ah. That is an awkward situation...” he looked suddenly rather sheepish, “Well, we shall think up some excuse. When is the new maid to start?”

“In a few days time, apparently. Grantaire has arranged it...” he shot Courfeyrac a warning look, “If you are about to suggest I employ the poor girl to play the part of Madame Enjolras...”

“No, no!” Courfeyrac held up his hands, “Not at all.” he said, though the manner in which he said it implied that had, indeed, been on the tip of his tongue.

Enjolras glared at him, “No.” he said simply.

“Very well, but never let it be said that I did not try to supply a solution.”

Enjolras shook his head, “Enough of this. Come, let us have lunch.”

 

-

 

The rest of the day passed smoothly, their family settling into the rooms with the help of Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The four of them supped together, the latter two taking their leave just after ten. Just as Grantaire had predicted the children warmed quickly to the sights and sounds of the city, Camille swiftly making a game of sitting on the balconet in the master bedroom and seeing how many passers-by he could encourage to wave back to him.

“I told you he would soon find a fondness for Paris!” Grantaire exclaimed cheerfully as he watched him, pulling a nightshirt from the armoire.

“I would rather him not draw too much attention to the house,” Enjolras said nervously, braiding back his hair, “His presence might invite questions...”

“What manner of questions are there to ask?” Grantaire snorted, “It is not unheard of for bachelors to take up rooms together. For all they know we are two widowers, left only with children and each other's friendship to see us by.”

Enjolras sighed, sitting down on the bed, “I suppose you may be right...” he said, eyes still fixed on Camille.

“It does happen from time to time,” Grantaire joked, joining him on the bed and taking his hand, “Are you happy now?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, squeezing his hand in reply, “The rooms are perfect. Thank you.”

“Good...” Grantaire smiled, kissing him softly on the lips.

He pulled away reluctantly, making his way to the balconet to retrieve Camille, “Come on, Monsieur, it is time you were in bed. Your brother is already asleep.”

“I am older though, father!” Camille argued as he dangled his legs through the railings of the balconet, “And it is light out still!”

“Yes, because it is summer, not because it is early. Do not try to trick me,” Grantaire smirked, “Come along – off to bed with you.”

“But father---”

“None of this! You are very short - you need your rest if you wish to grow.”

Camille pouted, arms folded angrily across his chest as Grantaire escorted him from the room, leaving Enjolras alone for a moment.

Taking advantage of the privacy Enjolras changed into a thin nightshirt, snuffing out all but one candle and laying back on the bed. The sky outside was still milky white, the hazy blue glow of twilight illuminating the room. He drew in a deep breath of summer air, watching as the breeze rifled the drapes of the bed and listening to the sounds of Paris beneath his window; it was not so late that the city had gone to sleep, and by his usual standards an early time for them to be turning in for the evening.

Enjolras had no misconceptions about why Grantaire had suggested they retire to bed so early, and he was not about to argue.

Grantaire returned a short while later, running one hand through his curls, “The children are finally asleep,” he reported, sounding exhausted by the endeavour, “All of them.”

“Good.” Enjolras said, stretching out in a way that he hoped was inviting, “Come to bed...”

Grantaire grinned at the sight of him, raising one eyebrow, “If you insist, Monsieur...”

“I would prefer 'citizen',”

“Oh, lord,” Grantaire laughed, making a face, “And with that you'll find my amorous mood has been ruined!”

“Oh come now, I do not mean in bed!” Enjolras said, flinging a pillow at him.

“I would not be at all surprised if you did,” Grantaire remarked, ducking out of the way, “But I will believe you, this once...”

“Do not taunt me.” Enjolras said, pulling him into bed by the front of his nightshirt.

“Oh but you are all the more wonderful when riled up,” Grantaire protested, going without complaint, “Particularly in this regard...”

“You are awful,” Enjolras decided, undermining his own words with a deep, hungry kiss. Grantaire made a little sound of pleasure into his mouth, lifting the bottom of Enjolras' nightshirt until it was ruched up around his waist. He never dared lift it any higher than that save for the rare occasions he was invited to. Enjolras was grateful for it.

“Awful, yes. Truly terrible,” Grantaire breathed, “Yet for some unknown reason you seem rather fond of me anyway...”

Enjolras smiled against his lips, running one finger along the edge of Grantaire's jaw, “I wonder why...” he murmured.

Grantaire looked as though he were about to make another smart remark, but whatever it was died suddenly in his throat, and he grimaced, “You shall have to be gentle with me,” he joked, though he sounded pained, “I am a little worse for wear this evening...”

Enjolras' eyes, fierce with desire, softened at once, “Are you sure you do not simply want to sleep...?”

“Absolutely not. I shall not let any aches and pains rob me of this...” Grantaire said firmly, kissing a trail down Enjolras' neck, “I no longer find time to gamble. I have given up the drink. This is the only vice left to me!” he said playfully, punctuating each sentence with another kiss, “If I am forced to renounce this as well I shall practically be a nun, and I do not think convent life would agree with me...”

Enjolras laughed, tilting his head to the side to relish in what he was doing, “Very well,” he said, “I suppose I shall just have to do a little more work than ususal.”

 

-

 

It was painfully early when the bed curtains were thrown back, bright morning light streaming into the dark space of the four-poster and causing Enjolras cover his eyes with one hand. Grantaire groaned, burrowing himself beneath the sheets.

“Good morning!” It was Courfeyrac who spoke, his face coming into focus when Enjolras dared squint against the sunlight to see who was standing at the foot of the bed.

“Courfeyrac? What are you doing here...?” He asked, instinctively scrambling to cover himself despite that he was still wearing his nightshirt.

“You gave me a key,” Courfeyrac said, as though that sufficed to explain, “It was only yesterday, do you not recall?”

“Yes, yes, I do – but why are you here?”

“Well, since you have not a maid for a few days, I figured I might be of some help if I came over early to assist you with the children.” Courfeyrac said brightly, throwing a shirt at him, “And we three have a date with my tailor, if you recall?”

Grantaire finally emerged from beneath the sheets to shoot Enjolras a baffled look, his hair springing up in all directions as it was prone to doing in the mornings.

“I forgot to mention that,” Enjolras admitted.

“Mention _what_ , exactly?”

“Courfeyrac intends on taking us shopping,” Enjolras explained, “He says that we need new clothes.”

Grantaire huffed, flopping back down onto his pillow, “Of course!” he cried, throwing up his hands dramatically, “Why am I even surprised?”

Courfeyrac did not seem put off by Grantaire's attitude; in fact, he barely seemed to notice.

“Breakfast is served,” he said, “Combeferre is dining with the children as we speak.”

“How delightful...” Grantaire murmured, arms now draped across his face in defence against the sun. It was a somewhat pitiful sight, Enjolras thought.

“Have you no concept of knocking?”

“Why bother?” Courfeyrac said, “Enjolras is as good as my brother, and there is nothing I could see here that would come as a surprise to me,” he gestured to the bed, “You are married, there is nothing scandalous about this.”

“I was thinking more that we may be somewhat attached to our privacy,” Grantaire said, gesturing grandly to the bedsheets as though to make a point of his nakedness.

“Ah,” Courfeyrac said, finally having the good grace to look guilty, “A fine point. Forgive me; I got a little ahead of myself...”

“You don't say?” Grantaire raised one eyebrow.

“Maybe you should step outside,” Enjolras advised, “So that we may dress.”

 

-

 

They left the children in the care of Combeferre, who did not seem best pleased by the suggestion.

“I do not know the first thing about caring for children,” he said as they prepared to leave.

“Well then this shall be an excellent opportunity to learn!” Courfeyrac decided cheerfully, pulling on his cap, “You are always talking about the importance of expanding our knowledge, are you not?”

Combeferre blanched, “Well, yes...”

“Excellent! Then I am sure you shall have a wonderful afternoon with Enjolras' children. They are angels.”

Enjolras, seeing the look of panic that crossed Combeferre's face, had to pity him. Angels was not the word he would have used to describe his children; Camille was more hellion than cherub when he wanted to be.

Still, if Combeferre shared his thoughts he dutifully kept his mouth shut on the matter, giving a curt nod, “Very well,” he said grudgingly, “Have a good afternoon. Do not be too long.”

Courfeyrac promised they would be 'only a short while, of course,' and then they headed out, Grantaire still grumbling about the rude awakening they'd received. 

It had been a long time since Enjolras had last dared step foot into a tailor's shop; before that June he had always frequented the same tailor. He'd allowed them to take his measurements once and then insisted that they kept them on record so that he would not need to be fitted again. Whenever he had required new clothing he would send Combeferre on his behalf to place his order and then again when it was complete to collect it.

The tailor had never queried Enjolras' unusual way of doing things, and why would he, when Enjolras had paid so well?

Fleetingly Enjolras wondered if the gentleman was still in business, though he realised bitterly that it mattered very little if he was; a list of names had been released that July once most of the insurgents had been identified, and Enjolras was quite sure the tailor would have closed the door in his face if he were to turn up on his doorstep.

No man wanted to own up to being the tailor to a failed revolutionary, after all.

They reached the shop before ten, the three of them enjoying the fine weather on the walk over. When Courfeyrac had spoken of his tailor's discretion Enjolras had envisioned someone sharp and quiet who did not ask questions – not the seventy-something-year-old grey-haired gentleman who greeted them at the door. Enjolras thought his supposed discretion was likely down to a lack of credible eyesight than any kind of moral standpoint, and from the way he squinted at the measuring tape and the half-moon spectacles that slid down his nose as he worked Enjolras was quite sure he could have stripped completely naked and the tailor still would have not noticed a thing out of the ordinary.

Still, he was cheerful and bright, evidently pleased to see Courfeyrac, and somehow – from looking at the pieces in the shop – managed to produce exquisitely made clothing.

“Any friend of Monsieur De Courfeyrac is a friend to me,” he'd said, shaking their hands.

Despite the friendly welcome Enjolras still spent his entire fitting as stiff as a statue, Grantaire watching like a hawk from the side of the room.

“Monsieur, I need you to relax a little,” The tailor said, brow creased with concern.

“Oh, yes,” Enjolras flushed, “Forgive me, it has been a long time since I was last fitted for anything...”

“It is not a problem, Monsieur. Do not fret; I have done this since I was a boy."

Enjolras forced a smile to his face, swallowing hard.

“Are you almost done?”

“Very nearly.”

A few more torturous minutes passed – with Enjolras nearly losing his nerve when the tailor had to measure across his chest – and then the man stepped back with a satisfied hum.

“There we are,” he said, jotting down the last of his measurements into a little leather bound book, “Have you considered what you should like to commission, Monsieur?”

“I shall take it from here,” Courfeyrac piped up, “I have a few things in mind for him. He has terrible fashion sense, it is best you leave the decisions to me.”

Enjolras was only too happy to let him take over, retreating to stand with Grantaire, sure that his hands were visibly shaking.

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asked quietly, eyes sympathetic.

Enjolras nodded, “I shall be fine. It's over and done with.” he said, eyeing the reams of fabric that lined the wall behind them.

There were colours and patterns of all kinds, thick wools, rich brocades and fine silks. His eyes came to rest on one roll in particular, standing out bold and bright in between two different shades of brown. His heart leapt a little, and a tug of longing stirred in his chest.

“Monsieur,” he called, cutting into the tailor's conversation with Courfeyrac, “My friend may request for me whatever outfits he sees fit,” he said, “But I should like to add to my order a waistcoat in this fabric.”

“Very well Monsieur...” the elderly man said, “Is it for any particular occasion?”

“No,” Enjolras said, eyes fixed on the roll of blood red cloth, “At least, not that I yet know of.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre is not a great babysitter honestly.

“Have you ever seen someone die?”

The question – and the blunt, open manner in which Camille asked it - took Combeferre completely by surprise.

The young boy sat opposite him at the kitchen table, swinging his legs back and forth and kicking him as he did.

Briefly Combeferre thought back to the barricades, but he pushed the memory aside.

“Ah, well, yes,” he said, “I am a doctor, after all, and sadly that oft comes with the territory...”

“How many people?”

“I would not know exactly.”

“How many roughly?”

Combeferre furrowed his brow, “I am afraid I could not say...”

“Oh.” Camille sighed, slumping back dramatically in his chair, “When will my fathers be home?”

“Shortly, I imagine,” Combeferre murmured, praying that he was correct. Enjolras' children were pleasant company – for the first twenty minutes.

He had caught François trying to root through his medical bag only half an hour after Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Grantaire had left, fortunately catching the four-year-old before he could find anything sharp or deadly. Camille, upon noticing this, had immediately begun bombarding him with questions.

The following conversation had resulted in Combeferre neatly laying out every surgical instrument in his bag on the kitchen table at Camille's request, hoping it might stave off boredom if he took his time explaining their uses. 

“Are you quite certain that your parents will be alright with this...?” he asked, doubtful.

“Of course.” Camille said, reaching out to touch some of the equipment, “They will not mind at all. They are always wanting me to learn new things.”

Combeferre made a dubious sound.

“What is the worst thing you have ever seen in your clinic?” Camille pressed, sitting upright again.

Combeferre floundered, unsure whether he ought to answer him or not. He'd not realised how morbid children could be until now.

“The pox,” he said eventually, deciding maybe it was best to humour him, “Lots of oozing sores and puss. It is quite vile.”

Camille tilted his head, “Have you ever had to saw off someone's leg?”

“Ah, not yet...”

“What about an arm?”

“Camille, would your father approve of you asking these sorts of questions?”

“Which one?” Camille challenged.

“Either of them,” Combeferre said, looking to his left and noticing François leafing through one of his medical books; he was too young to read or comprehend many of the words, but he appeared mesmerised by the pictures and anatomical illustrations on the pages.

“Do you like that?” he asked.

François gave a shy smile, nodding.

“Well, you may keep it then, if you promise to read it properly when you are a little older.” Combeferre offered, feeling his heart swell when he saw the little boy's eyes grow wide with delight. It was nothing that Combeferre could not very easily replace, and the gesture was apparently well-received.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” François said, in such a practised manner that it was obvious Enjolras had been trying to instill manners in him. Well, he assumed it was Enjolras, anyway – somehow Combeferre could not imagine it was Grantaire's doing.

“In a week or so, when you are all settled in, I will take you to my clinic, like I promised,” he said, “Would you still like that?”

François nodded again, “Yes Monsieur,” he said, looking almost bashful as he held the book to his chest.

“Excellent. I think you will make a fine physician, one day,” Combeferre said, “Maybe your father will even let you apprentice with me.”

François' whole face lit up, “I hope so!”

“This is boring.” Camille put in, watching them with patent disinterest, “Can't we go somewhere? I want to see more of Paris.”

“No, Camille,” Combeferre said, exasperated, “We are waiting for your parents to return.”

“I'm tired of hearing about this.” Camille insisted, pointing to the table of surgical equipment.

“Well, your brother is not.”

“That is because he wants to be a doctor.”

“And what of you?”

“Well, I do not.”

“What _do_ you want to be, Camille?” Combeferre asked tiredly, hoping that if the child gave him an answer he might find some other way to distract him until Enjolras and Grantaire returned.

“I am not sure.” Camille said thoughtfully, “I think I want to help people, like in my father's books.”

Combeferre froze.

“Your father's books?”

“Yes.” Camille confirmed, his blue eyes fierce with certainty, “I don't think it's fair that so many people are cold and hungry. There's enough to go around.” he said, “Somebody ought to do something about it.”

Combeferre did not know what to say. The boy resembled Grantaire in so many of his features, from the crooked way he smirked to the dark mop of curls on his head, and yet, for an instant, it felt as though he was sitting across from Enjolras, transported by some magic into the body of an eight year old.

All at once his head was swimming with visions of the barricade; the groan of the cannons being pushed on their castors over the cobbles, the crack of grapeshot, the smell of black powder thick in the air. He remembered it all - a wall of broken furniture, the vibrant reds and royal blues of the National Guard, a bayonet in his stomach. It made him feel sick with dread.

He snapped out of his daze suddenly, noticing that Camille was staring at him expectantly, awaiting his opinion on the matter.

Combeferre opened his mouth to try and respond, but no words came to him; at that exact moment he heard the sound of the front door being unlocked, and let out a sharp breath of relief that he had been spared from a difficult conversation.

Grantaire was the first into the kitchen, walking swiftly even with his cane; his lips were pursed and he appeared to be in such a foul mood that briefly Combeferre worried that he had overheard some of their conversation. He stood, preparing to assure Grantaire that he had not fostered the interest in Camille, that he had not expected it, that he was about to discourage it – but there was no need, because Grantaire passed through the kitchen to the dining room without so much as a backwards glance.

Enjolras followed at his heel, noticeably upset.

“Grantaire!” he called, “Please, will you not hear me out? It is only a colour, for the love of god! Must you forever be so stubborn?”

Courfeyrac let them go, lingering behind in the kitchen. The children disappeared after Enjolras and Grantaire, whispering curiously together and clearly attempting to be sneaky.

“What is the matter...?” Combeferre asked, baffled.

Courfeyrac sighed, “Enjolras has ordered a waistcoat from my tailor.”

“And they are fighting over it?”

“It is red,” Courfeyrac said.

Combeferre understood immediately; “Oh.”

“Yes. Back in Paris for barely a day and already it is like the Enjolras we once knew has been restored to life,” Courfeyrac said, sitting down beside him.

“Is that a good thing?” Combeferre whispered, not meeting his gaze. From the corner of his eye he saw Courfeyrac tilt his head in confusion.

“I thought that was what you wanted? Was it not your intention to restore him to his old ways when you first invited him to join us in Paris?”

“It was,” Combeferre said, unsure how to word what it was he was feeling, “But...he has a family, Courfeyrac.”

“I am aware. What has brought about this newfound concern for his children?”

“I spent time with them.” Combeferre mumbled, looking over at the things set out on the table, “And I saw Enjolras when he thought Grantaire and Camille were to die. He does love his family; deeply, deeper than I had first thought...”

“This is sweet sentiment, Combeferre, but I fear has come a little too late,” Courfeyrac said sadly, “He is already too much of his former self for us to have any say over it now.”

Combeferre reached to take his hand, smiling to himself when Courfeyrac responded by interlacing their fingers.

“I worry that I have led him back to a barricade,” he confessed, “I worry that he will die, and Grantaire shall not be able to cope, and his children will be destroyed and never the same.”

“What do you propose we do, then?” Courfeyrac asked, “Sabotage his attempts to be involved with Renaud and his friends?”

“Perhaps,” Combeferre said, and the thought was almost laughably absurd to him; a few months prior he would have been leaping for joy to learn that Enjolras was reintroducing red to his wardrobe, but now the thought clawed uncomfortably at his conscience.

He could not stop thinking of François, sensitive and bright and so full of admiration for Combeferre. He could not bear imagining that admiration leave the boy's eyes as he grew to learn that Combeferre was in part responsible for his father's death.

He thought of Camille, with his fierce personality and budding passion for politics, and feared the worst; if Enjolras died would it provide him a martyr? A reason to do the same? Would the precocious child who had boldly threatened him with a wooden sabre grow up to brandish a real one in the name of liberty?

And Marianne – she was only an infant. She deserved to have a childhood with both of her parents - not a story, not a missing face whenever she tried to conjure a memory of Enjolras.

The three of them, they all deserved so much more than what Combeferre had initially set them up for. He thought back to when he had first found Enjolras, and to the words he had spoken then; _'I am in my own way doing my part towards a better future – I am raising fine citizens of France'_. He had been right, Combeferre now realised.

He was about to pour all of these doubts out to Courfeyrac when Enjolras stormed back into the room, red-faced from arguing with Grantaire.

“I am sorry about that,” he said, straightening up a little.

“Is Grantaire still unhappy?” Courfeyrac asked.

“He will remain so for some time,” Enjolras said, voice a little tart, “He shall simply have to deal with his anger like an adult. How were the children for you, Combeferre?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Oh, they were...delightful,” Combeferre said, “Angels, just as Courfeyrac said.”

“You may answer honestly,” Enjolras said flatly.

“Well _François_ was delightful...”

“Ah,” Enjolras pulled out a chair, practically collapsing into it, “Camille, then?”

“Yes. He...asks a lot of questions.”

“I am not surprised. He is an absolute devil for details,” Enjolras mumbled, rubbing his temple tiredly, “He inherits the trait from Grantaire; for a man who claims to be a fool he is remarkably full of knowledge. Camille is exactly the same. It is insufferable.”

“Well he was not too bad,” Combeferre said charitably.

Enjolras let out a small hum of surprise, his gaze shifting to the table, and the litany of surgical instruments lined out across it.

“What on earth are these on the table for?”

“Ah,” Combeferre said, “The boys wished to know what they were used for...”

“You let my children handle these things?” Enjolras' voice rose slightly in both pitch and volume, and suddenly Combeferre regretted letting Camille cajole him into it.

“I...only a few,” he said weakly; he could practically feel Courfeyrac beside him trying not to laugh.

“Only a few?” Enjolras echoed, eyebrows raised, “Have you _completely_ lost your wits?”

“Camille was curious!” Combeferre protested, “There was a lot he wished to know about what it is I do!”

“Such as _what?_ ”

“Such as whether or not I had seen anyone die, and I told him that I did not know the precise number, but---”

“You _told_ him?”

“Well---”

“He is _eight!_ ”

Courfeyrac snorted a little, “Easy now, Enjolras,” he said, “Combeferre is trying to make a surgeon of your son, show a little gratitude...”

Enjolras scoffed, “You shall have a job of it. Camille finds such things terribly dull.”

Combeferre blinked, “But then why would he have asked to see my surgical tools...?”

“Most likely to get you into some degree of trouble.” Enjolras told him bluntly.

 _Oh._ The boy had tricked him purely for the purpose of his own amusement; an eight year old had played him like a fiddle. Combeferre turned beet red. _He is Grantaire's offspring_ , he reminded himself. All this time he had been seeing the children only as Enjolras' – and he supposed it served him right for doing so. It was a dangerous mistake.

“Ah.” he said, “It worked.”

“It did.” Enjolras agreed.

At that moment Marianne began to wail loudly in the next room; Combeferre noticed the way Enjolras grimaced to hear it, an almost reflexive response to the sound. His jaw twitched a little, and he stood from his chair, “Excuse me,” he said, “I need to tend to my daughter.”

He left the room without another word, seeming utterly unenthused by the prospect.

Combeferre looked to Courfeyrac, who was evidently still amused.

“You let the children play with your surgical tools?”

“I didn't let them play with them!” Combeferre argued, “Just...see them. And hold them a little.”

“They're children.” Courfeyrac said, as though he had forgotten.

“Yes, yes, I know. But they're very persuasive.”

“Camille is eight. François is _four_.”

“Camille also has Enjolras' charisma,” Combeferre said.

“And Grantaire's penchant for being troublesome.” Courfeyrac grinned, “He had you clocked for a fool the instant he met you.”

“Oh leave me be,” Combeferre grumbled, starting to gather up his surgical equipment from the table, “Perhaps you ought to go with Enjolras to tend to Marianne? He is not exactly nurturing with her. I dare say she prefers you to him.”

Courfeyrac looked a little guilty, “Perhaps,” he agreed, getting to his feet.

 

-

 

The next day brought Enjolras' thirty-first birthday, a matter which Enjolras greeted as though going to the guillotine. Despite the argument the day before Enjolras and Grantaire seemed to have made amends; Combeferre did not care to know how, exactly. The four of them went about their morning as any other, taking breakfast together and then settling in the parlour to read around noon. Enjolras had made it patently clear that the significance of the day was not to be acknowledged.

“It is not a number of any importance,” he stated when Courfeyrac tried to coax him out to lunch to celebrate, “We are dining with Pontmercy and his wife this evening, is that not enough?”

“I know that you dislike your birthdays,” Courfeyrac said, sitting down beside him on the chaise, “You have explained why, and it is understandable. But this is your first one since returning to Paris! I intend to make it a pleasant one.”

“It is pleasant already.” Enjolras argued, “I am with my friends and I am in the city that I love. I do not need anything more than that.”

“Ah, you will not be wanting my gift, then?” Grantaire put in from where he was sat opposite them, a sketchbook open on his lap.

Enjolras' cheeks grew pink, “You needn't get me anything,” he said, “Grantaire, we have been over this before---”

“Oh allow me some gestures of affection, Enjolras,” Grantaire complained, setting down his pencil, “You are unbearable at times, I swear.”

Enjolras recoiled, insulted; “Fine,” he said, “Where is it, then?”

“It is not finished. In truth, it is not even started.”

“Well then some fine birthday gift you have given me!” Enjolras rolled his eyes, throwing up his hands, “Evidently it was worth hounding me over!”

“I wish to paint you.” Grantaire said.

Combeferre saw Enjolras do a double take; “What?”

“You heard me,” Grantaire said, “I would like to paint you - properly.”

The pink tinge in Enjolras' cheeks darkened to a deep red, “I have no need for such frivolous displays of vanity...”

“It is not vanity if someone else is painting it.”

“But it is a gift to me.”

“And a pleasure for me to paint, I am sure. You wound me in calling it frivolity; I do not paint for frivolous reasons, Enjolras. It is a very intimate act, in my mind. You know that...”

Enjolras stared at him for a long while, looking almost breathless, “I know...” he said, “If it really would please you, then...”

“It would. I know you would be a very fine model...”

Combeferre shifted uncomfortably on the chaise, feeling as though the room was suddenly charged with sexual tension. Just as he became concerned that the two of them were going to throw themselves upon each other in the middle of the parlour they were interrupted by a knock at the front door.

Before he could use it as an excuse to flee the room Courfeyrac – having evidently thought the same – had sprung to his feet and disappeared down the hallway to answer it. The distraction did, fortunately, break the extended eye-contact between Enjolras and Grantaire, and the latter returned absentmindedly to his sketching.

Courfeyrac appeared in the doorway again a few minutes later, a small red-haired woman following him closely, “Your new maid is here,” he said, stepping to one side so that Enjolras and Grantaire could see her.

Enjolras brushed himself off, getting to his feet, “Welcome,” he said, “Cecile, yes?”

“Yes, Mada---Monsieur!” The woman balked, face turning almost as red as her hair; Enjolras stiffened, drawing back a little.

“Forgive me, Monsieur,” Cecile gave a little curtsy; Combeferre thought that was almost as bad as calling Enjolras ' _Madame_ '. He did not like to be reminded of his high birth. Combeferre pitied her - she was not off to a particularly promising start.

“Marceline has explained your situation to me in full,” she said, “It is merely a force of habit, I am afraid, but one that I will be mindful to break.”

“Good. Ensure that you do.” Enjolras said curtly, “I trust that Marceline also informed you of your duties?”

“Yes. Housekeeping and caring for the children...” Cecile took a cautious step back; Combeferre could hardly blame her. He had no doubt at all that Enjolras would eat her for breakfast if she did not learn to watch her tongue where the matter of his sex was concerned.

“Good.” Enjolras gestured to his right, not taking his eyes off Cecile; “This is my husband, Grantaire...”

Grantaire set down his sketchbook and rose to greet her, giving her hand a polite kiss, “Mademoiselle.”

Cecile made the even more fatal mistake of looking charmed by the gesture, and the pity Combeferre felt for her graduated to alarm when he saw the expression that crossed Enjolras' face.

“Courfeyrac,” He said, gritting his teeth, “Would you please take Cecile around the house and introduce her to the children?”

“I would be delighted to,” Courfeyrac said, offering the redhead his arm, “Come along. You will love them, I am sure. Marianne is a cherub! A seraph!”

He led her away, Enjolras visibly tense. He whirled to face Grantaire as soon as she was gone from sight, bristling like an angry cat.

“Stay away from her.” he demanded.

Grantaire could not have looked more startled, “What? Why?”

“I dislike her.”

“Because she is not your beloved Marceline?” Grantaire guessed, “You are being too harsh on her. She is new to this, and to our predicament. I am sure she will learn.”

Enjolras let out a haughty laugh, “Not so new that she couldn't find time to fawn over you.”

Grantaire's confusion melted into amusement, “My, Enjolras, are you _jealous?_ ”

Enjolras puffed up his chest, “No.” he hissed.

“My god! You are!”

“I do not like the way she looked at you.”

“Enjolras, have you hit that pretty head of yours?” Grantaire said, “If you think being unfaithful to you would ever even enter my mind then you are a complete fool.”

“I never said that!”

Combeferre, deciding it was time to intervene, got to his feet; “Enjolras, do not worry yourself about it. I will see to it that she knows her way around,” he offered, “And ensure that she stays out of your way as much as possible.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome. Now come, sit with me,” he held out his hand, “I have some thoughts about what I've been reading that I should like to discuss with you. I am sure you have a strong opinion on them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly Enjolras and Grantaire are both ridiculous.  
> That is the thing to take away from this chapter.


	19. Chapter 19

It never ceased to amaze Combeferre, the reasons Enjolras and Grantaire found to be at odds with one another. It was almost as if they enjoyed it; arguing seemed a sport to them. By the time the four of them were preparing to leave for the restaurant to meet with Marius and Cosette they appeared to have smoothed over any problems from earlier.

“It is their way of courtship, I suppose,” Courfeyrac said, donning his top hat, “Do you not recall how they were in the Musain, long before they even came to be lovers? I cannot look back upon those moments now without feeling dirty.” he joked.

Combeferre shook his head, lifting his chin as Courfeyrac moved to fix his cravat for him; he had always been better at it than him.

“Well, I hope they keep it to a minimum this evening,” he said, feeling his skin tingle when Courfeyrac's hand brushed his neck, “What excuse has Enjolras devised to explain the absence of his wife?”

“Madame Enjolras has chosen to remain in the countryside, for her health,” Courfeyrac said, “And the excuse was my creation. Enjolras was going to say she was dead! A little extreme, in my humble opinion, to wish death upon the poor imaginary woman.” he tutted, “And it would press the matter of why Enjolras was not garbed in mourning clothes. It is far easier to say she is alive but absent.”

“A wise decision,” Combeferre agreed, almost disappointed when Courfeyrac finished adjusting his cravat and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

“There we are. You look very dashing,” Courfeyrac said, eyes sparkling; it was clear that he knew the effect he had on him.

“Thank you,” Combeferre said, “As do you...”

“Thank you – though this shirt is a little on the uncomfortable side,” Courfeyrac commented, fiddling with the cuffs, “Perhaps you will be so kind as to help divest me of the problem later?”

Combeferre's face grew hot; “Perhaps...”

“Are we ready?” Enjolras called, stepping out into the hallway; he was well-dressed, and briefly Combeferre wondered if that was Courfeyrac's doing. His hair was tied back with a black ribbon, and he wore a top hat that looked as though it had done nothing but sit in a box for years. His frock coat was a dark emerald, fashioned from velvet, and he had on boots that were obviously borrowed from Courfeyrac, confirming his suspicions.

“We are if you are,” Combeferre said.

“Very nearly - we are just waiting on Grantaire,” Enjolras told them, “He insisted upon taking pride in his appearance this evening. I think he wishes for Pontmercy to think well of him, since it has been so long since they have last seen each other. 'I do not want him to think me the same drunkard from 1832', he said.”

“I doubt Pontmercy would think badly of him under any circumstances.” Combeferre said, “I think Marius rather incapable of cruel thought.”

“I know, but he insists,” Enjolras said, “Do you think the children will be alright...?”

“I am sure Cecile is more than capable,” Combeferre assured him, “You ought to give the girl a chance.”

“Oh, yes! I am sure she is going to do wonderfully!” Courfeyrac piped up, looking Enjolras up and down approvingly, “She thought the children were delightful when she met them earlier, and they her. Even Camille took to her; I dare say the boy is a little infatuated with her!”

“How wonderful.” Enjolras said, in a way that implied he thought it anything but.

“Do not despair, Enjolras; she will learn what is and is not appropriate soon enough, I am sure,” Comberre said, glancing over Enjolras' shoulder as Grantaire appeared behind him, straightening the lapels of his coat.

He had followed suit with Enjolras, hiding his messy curls beneath a top hat, and, it seemed, he had picked out a deep wine red coat from the depths of his wardrobe for the sole purpose of making some kind of point to Enjolras. He had shaved, and it took Combeferre by surprise, for he looked like a completely different man without the coarse stubble.

“Oh my! Enjolras, you did not tell me that Grantaire scrubbed up so nicely!” Courfeyrac said, laughing.

“It has been known to happen from time to time,” Grantaire said with a wry smile, artfully maneuvering through the three of them to take the lead, “Come along, then,” he said, twirling his cane in one hand, “We do not want to keep Pontmercy and his wife waiting, do we?”

 

-

 

They reached the restaurant by eight, finding that Marius and Cosette had already been seated at their table; there was a moment of surprise when Marius caught sight of Grantaire, and a hasty call to a waiter to provide them with an extra seat.

“My god!” He exclaimed, leaping to his feet, “Do my eyes deceive me? I had no idea that you were---”

“Alive?” Grantaire guessed, raising one eyebrow.

“Well, yes,”

“Did nobody think to tell you?”

“Alas, no.”

Grantaire looked between Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras, outraged, “How shameful!” he said, “Enjolras, I am disappointed in you most of all! You neglected to tell our dear Pontmercy that I was still drawing breath?”

Enjolras looked rightly embarrassed, “It did not come up...”

“It did not come up? 'It did not come up', he says!” Grantaire threw up his hands, nearly knocking Combeferre in the face with his cane as he did so, “We live together, for heavens sake! 'It did not come up'! Shameful, I say.”

Marius cocked his head, “The two of you live together?”

“Yes,” Enjolras blushed, “Grantaire has nowhere else to go...”

“And Enjolras is ever so charitable.” Grantaire put in, linking his arm with Enjolras', “As you well know, of course.”

Marius blinked, unable to mask his confusion, “Well. That is truly something,” he said, “Forgive me, but when I last saw the two of you together you did not particularly get along. That you are now friends is quite surprising, I confess.”

Enjolras let out an anxious laugh, looking as though he wanted to shake Grantaire off his arm, “Yes,” he said, “We are good friends now...”

“ _Very_ good friends,” Grantaire chipped in, giving Enjolras a look that was entirely too fond, “Enjolras and I are very close these days.” he said, “We have become quite intimate over the years...”

“That is excellent to hear,” Marius said, furrowing his brow, “But if you live together...Enjolras, does your wife agree with that arrangement?”

“His _wife_?” Grantaire turned his head towards Enjolras so abruptly that Combeferre feared he might snap his neck; had Enjolras not mentioned the lie to him?

Grantaire, to his credit, took one look at the expression on Enjolras' face and recovered instantaneously.

“His wife is a dear,” he said, looking back to Marius with a wide smile, “And quite at peace with my presence, I assure you!”

“Will Madame Enjolras not be joining us?” Cosette inquired, visibly disappointed as she fanned herself with a lace fan, “I was so looking forward to having more like-minded company...”

“Unfortunately she will not. She has chosen instead to remain in the countryside, for the sake of her health.” Enjolras informed them stiffly.

“She is not ill, I hope?”

“Not that I know of,” Enjolras said with a dismissive shrug.

“But do you not miss her terribly?” Marius pressed, frowning, “I cannot even imagine being apart from Cosette for more than a few days! It would quite destroy my spirit!”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I miss her.” Enjolras stated, with all the warmth of a tomb; a prompting nudge from Courfeyrac had him attempting to look distressed, though he appeared more constipated than lovelorn.

“My heart breaks every moment that I am without her.” he said, but the flat delivery made it sound as though he were reading the line from a card. Combeferre groaned inwardly.

“He is beside himself,” Courfeyrac said, patting Enjolras gently on the back, “The poor thing.”

Marius and Cosette exchanged looks with each other but thankfully did not push the matter any further.

“Well. Shall we all look at the menu, then?” Marius said instead, and it could not have been more obvious that he was hoping to change the subject.

 

-

 

Dinner was such a pleasant affair that Combeferre soon forgot the precarious situation involving Enjolras and Grantaire.

It was going well – the food was fine and the wine flowed perhaps a little too freely, but then conversation turned to Grantaire and his life.

“So, is there no Madame Grantaire?” Marius questioned.

Grantaire took a sip of wine, letting out a hearty laugh, “Well, legally speaking there is!” he said, amused. Enjolras flashed him a murderous look.

“I'm afraid I do not understand...?”

Grantaire, catching himself, waved it off, “We are separated. The marriage did not prevail,” he said, “It is why I went to live with dear Enjolras here!” he threw one arm jovially around Enjolras' shoulders, “He is a _most_ courteous host...”

“I am sure he is,” Marius said, “Though I am sorry to hear of your marriage. Do you have any children?”

Grantaire gave a lofty shrug, “How ever should I know?” he said, “I am a libertine, after all! I very likely have scores upon scores of offspring running about Paris...”

Marius' smile dropped right off his face.

“He does not.” Enjolras said, taking a finicky bite of his food and not looking up from his plate, “He is toying with you, Pontmercy.”

Marius visibly relaxed, laughing nervously, “Ah,” he said, a flush creeping all the way up his neck to his ears, “How very amusing...”

“It is unfortunate,” Grantaire said, setting down his wine glass and wiping one eye for dramatic effect, “I would have _loved_ to have children of my own, but alas, it never seemed to happen! Woe, I say.”

“It is a pity - they are truly a blessing. Cosette and I have a young daughter,” Marius said, in such a way that suggested he would have found a way to gush about the little girl no matter Grantaire's answer, “She is the sweetest little thing!”

“I am sure she is, if she takes after her mother,” Grantaire said, nodding to Cosette, who's cheeks turned pink.

“What did you name her, anyhow?” Courfeyrac demanded, swigging his wine, “You neglected to tell me! _Me!_ Her godfather!”

“We settled upon the name Marie,” Cosette said brightly.

Combeferre felt his stomach turn over; he looked immediately to Enjolras, who drained his glass in one go without even flinching. 

“Marie?” he echoed, lips now stained red with wine, “What a lovely name...”

“Isn't it?” Marius grinned, apparently oblivious to Enjolras' discomfort, “She is growing so quickly! It seems just yesterday that she was but a small bundle in my arms, and now she is a little person!”

“Enjolras' daughter is growing too,” Courfeyrac said, proceeding to fawn with Marius about the two baby girls as though Marianne were his own.

 

-

 

It was half-way through the main course before the conversation strayed from the joys of parenting – a topic which had Enjolras agonizingly disinterested and Grantaire struggling not to engage himself.

“Combeferre, I have to ask,” Marius said, lowering his voice suddenly, “I have heard worrying rumours, of late...”

“Oh?” Combeferre felt his stomach twist with unease, “Such as?”

Marius glanced around covertly, as though to be sure they were not being watched, and then leaned across the table, eyes troubled, “There are whispers of students meeting in one of the bistros near to where the Corinth...” he trailed off, “I was wondering if you knew anything of those whispers?”

“A little,” Combeferre murmured; he felt Enjolras tense up to his left.

His answer did nothing to reassure Marius.

“Please be wary,” he said, “I do not want to see you fall back in with that sort of crowd...”

“What sort of crowd?” Enjolras said tartly, taking Marius by surprise. His face was flushed from too much wine, and any kindness he might have otherwise lent his words had abandoned him to the drink.

Marius floundered, “I, well---”

“People who want change? People who are tired of seeing suffering?”

Combeferre lay his hand on Enjolras' arm, “Enjolras...”

“Let me be,” Enjolras growled, jerking free and fixing Marius with a look so heated it could have melted steel, “Well?”

Marius turned as white as a ghost, “Forgive me, I did not mean anything by it...”

“Good.” Enjolras said, “Because there is nothing wrong with such aspirations. You forget who you dine with, Pontmercy.”

Marius shrunk back in his seat. There was a suffocating silence, broken only when Grantaire let out an exaggerated groan. 

“My god it is warm in here!" he complained, loosening his cravat, “I am fond of the summer, but this is rather excessive! The season is overworking itself. I must put in a complaint with the weather.”

Cosette giggled, clearly grateful for the change of topic, “You may borrow my fan, if you would like?”

“Ah! You are an angel, indeed!” Grantaire declared, “Marius, you married very well! I would be honoured, sweet Cosette,” he said, reaching across the table to take it from her and knocking over his glass with his elbow as he did.

Enjolras let out a yelp of surprise, pushing back his chair as some of the wine spilled into his lap.

“Ah! Curse me!” Grantaire cried, seizing a napkin from the table, “Forgive me, Monsieur!”

“It is fine---”

“No, no– allow me, please,” Grantaire insisted, a devilish look upon his face as he began to wipe the wine from Enjolras' trousers in far too intimate a manner for Combeferre's liking.

Enjolras' cheeks turned crimson, “I can do it---”

“Oh, heavens no!” Grantaire protested, his head disappearing beneath the table to continue his efforts so that only a mop of dark curls could be seen, “It was my error, you must let me atone for the crime!”

Enjolras swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table; Combeferre did not want to imagine exactly what Grantaire was doing to illicit such a response from him.

 _He is doing this on purpose_ , Combeferre realised.

“Alright, that is quite enough of that,” Enjolras decided, his voice jumping several octaves higher than usual, “Christ - Grantaire, _stop!_ ”

Grantaire sat up, short curls flying everywhere, “Done!” he announced, brandishing the napkin for all to see, “ _Et Voilà!_ ”

Enjolras was still redder than the waistcoat he'd ordered, breathing somewhat heavily. Something seemed to flash suddenly in Cosette's eyes – it looked like realisation, and for a moment Combeferre felt his heart stop.

The she smiled sweetly, holding out her fan to Enjolras, “Perhaps you might like this, Monsieur?” she offered, “You look a little warm yourself...”

“Thank you,” Enjolras mumbled, taking it from her and starting to fan himself furiously. Grantaire smirked.

 

-

 

As dinner wrapped up it became clear to Combeferre that Grantaire and Enjolras had drunk too much wine to keep up their pretense of mere civility. Enjolras rarely imbibed, and Grantaire had done so so little of late that a few glasses had put him out of commission. They sat too close, whispered together too often, and by the time they were finished with dessert all semblance of propriety had gone out of the window.

As they debated how to split the bill Combeferre saw Grantaire lean in towards Enjolras, murmuring something into his ear that had Enjolras turning scarlet.

“I will cover the bill,” Combeferre had said in a panic, practically throwing his money onto the table in an effort to get them out quickly.

They left the restaurant just before eleven, bidding Marius and Cosette a hasty farewell.

 

-

 

They took the route that brought them along the Seine on the walk back, Combeferre privately suggesting it in the hopes that the cool air blowing off the river might sober Enjolras and Grantaire up somewhat. It had proven fruitless, but the summer night was sweet and the river glittering with lamplight, and so Combeferre could not bring himself to regret the decision.

“You embarassed me terribly this evening!” Enjolras complained as they walked, swaying a little on Courfeyrac's arm.

“You embarrassed yourself, mon coeur!” Grantaire said, grinning from ear to ear and sounding thoroughly pleased with himself, “I did nothing to warrant any shame...”

“You were draping yourself all over me!”

“I cannot help it; you have an intoxicating effect upon me!”

Enjolras scoffed, “You could not have waited until we were home?”

“Ah, come now my love,” Grantaire peeled himself away from Combeferre - who was quite done trying to stop him, for all the good it was worth – and threw one arm around Enjolras' waist to pull him to him, using his cane rather creatively to keep himself upright. 

“Do not be so sour! I promise that I shall make it up to you...” he said, leaning in for a passionate kiss. Their lips met clumsily for only a moment before Combeferre dragged Grantaire back by the collar like a badly behaved dog.

“Not here!” he growled, “You are in _public!_ ”

“Oh come now, it is late!” Grantaire argued, trying to shoo him away to no avail, “There is hardly anyone about to see!”

“Save your wooing until you are behind closed doors.” Combeferre demanded, shooting Courfeyrac an exasperated look. Courfeyrac looked to be more amused than put out, laughing to himself as he steadied Enjolras.

“My, Enjolras, you are an entertaining drunk!” he said.

“I am _not_ drunk!” Enjolras insisted vehemently, throwing up one hand to catch his top hat as it slid off his head in his stumbling.

“Of course not.”

 

-

 

He and Courfeyrac delivered the two of them home, watching until they had disappeared into the house before veering off towards their own lodgings.

“What a wonderful evening!” Courfeyrac said cheerfully, as though somehow completely unaware of the disaster that had been Enjolras and Grantaire's performance during dinner.

“If you say so.”

“Oh hell, you cannot say it was not entertaining!”

Combeferre could not help but chuckle, “I suppose. I worry that Madame Pontmercy may have noticed something awry, however...”

“Ah, well,” Courfeyrac smiled awkwardly, “She is a dear; if she has noticed, I am doubtful she will breathe a word of it. She does not seem the sort to meddle."

"I hope not."

"I am sure of it. Now come – enough of this,” he took Combeferre's arm, casting a sly smile his way, “The night is young, and the stars are bright, and as I said before, this shirt is _most_ uncomfortable.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly just Grantaire being a Little Shit (TM)

When Enjolras woke his temples were throbbing, so deeply and painfully that if felt as though his head was like to explode.

It took him a moment to realise where he was – stretched out on his stomach on one of the chaises in the parlour, one boot sitting lonesome in the doorway and the other still hanging off his foot. His cravat hung loose around his neck and he was still wearing the rich emerald frock coat he had worn out to the restaurant. His top hat was nowhere to be found.

It was not a very dignified way to wake, he thought.

He blew a stray ringlet out of his face, pushing himself up into a sitting position with a loud groan. Thirty-one was hardly old, but according to his joints ostensibly too old to be falling asleep in uncomfortable positions.

“Monsieur...?”

He turned to see Cecile standing wide-eyed in the doorway with a duster in one hand, evidently stunned to find her employer passed out in the parlour.

“What?” he growled, feeling too wretched to be anything other than short with her.

“You have guests at the door, Monsieur,” she announced, recovering her composure so swiftly that Enjolras had to admire her a little for it.

“ _What?_ ” he said, finally registering what she'd just said.

“You have guests,” she repeated, “A Monsieur and Madame Pontmercy?”

Enjolras' heart did a somersault in his chest; he sprang to his feet, feeling the whole room tilt violently to one side as he did.

“Christ almighty!” he cried, holding his head, “Please, Cecile, send them away.”

“I already tried Monsieur, seeing as you were indisposed,” Cecile said apologetically, “But Monsieur Pontmercy is quite insistent upon seeing you. He would not leave.”

Enjolras cursed under his breath; “Very well,” he muttered, “But stall him at the door a while, will you please? I must refresh myself before I am fit to entertain...”

Cecile nodded, “I will do my best...”

“Good. And where are the children?”

“They are in the dining room, taking breakfast,” Cecile informed him, “It is rather late in the day, Monsieur...”

“Of course it is. Damn the wine; I do not understand how people take enjoyment in this.” Enjolras grumbled, “Go and keep Monsieur Pontmercy and his wife at bay for a while, I beg. And keep the children from leaving the dining room.”

Cecile gave a little curtsey (Enjolras made a mental note that he would have to break her of the habit) and then disappeared down the hallway to do as he said.

 

-

 

When Enjolras made it to the master bedroom he found that Grantaire was still sleeping soundly in their bed, a snoring lump of dark curls that it seemed would have been quite content to remain undisturbed.

Enjolras picked up a pillow that had fallen onto the floor, tossing it at him, “Wake up!”

Grantaire shifted beneath the sheets, groaning audibly, “Hmmm?”

“Wake up,” Enjolras repeated, hurrying over to the washstand and finding, to his relief, that there was still some water in the jug, “Pontmercy and his wife have blessed us with an unannounced visit...”

He heard Grantaire sit up in the bed behind him, yawning loudly.

“Enjolras. You are awake, then.”

“Yes.”

“Good. I was worried about you. I had to leave you in the parlour; you were in quite a state of disarray, but my health would not allow me to carry you to the bed,” Grantaire said guiltily, “I did make a valiant effort...”

“I appreciate that,” Enjolras said, splashing his face with the water and relishing in the feeling of it, “Do not trouble yourself over it.”

“Why is Pontmercy calling upon us at this hour?” Grantaire said, “Nothing is wrong, I hope?”

“How ever should I know? Get up, please. I do not wish to face him alone.”

“I will, calm yourself. Will you fetch me my cane?”

 

-

 

When they finally ventured into the parlour they found Marius and Cosette talking quietly together, enjoying tea that Cecile had evidently provided as a means of distraction.

Marius set down his cup the moment he saw Enjolras, rising instantly to his feet.

“Enjolras,” he said, “Forgive us for the intrusion, please...”

“It is no bother,” Enjolras lied, taking a seat opposite them and gesturing for Marius to sit back down, “What can I do for you?”

“It is I who must do something for you, my friend. That is, to apologise,” Marius said, “I could not abide the thought that we may have parted on bad terms last night.”

“Bad terms?”

“I spoke out of turn about Combeferre's friends,” Marius explained warily, as though he thought Enjolras might have forgotten. It was a fair assumption to make, given how drunk he had been.

“I did not mean to offend...”

“Then it will please you to know that you did no such thing,” Enjolras said, desperate to get them out of the house as quickly as possible.

“But...”

“Your apology is unnecessary, Pontmercy.” Enjolras insisted, holding up one hand to silence him, “I merely imbibed too much; as you know I am not particularly well acquainted with the effects of wine. Forgive me if I seemed displeased. You are as entitled to your opinion as I am mine...”

“It was still ungracious of me,” Marius continued, wringing his hands in his lap, “And hypocritical, considering that I was there that June the same as the rest of you...”

The mention of that June seemed to shake him even now, for he looked down at his feet as though in disgrace, Cosette placing her hand over his in a show of silent support. Suddenly Enjolras felt a twinge of guilt; it was not only he, Combeferre and Courfeyrac that were suffering the effects of the barricades. He ought to have considered that.

“It is fine, Marius, believe me,” he said, softening his voice, “We are on perfectly good terms, I assure you. After all we have been through it would take far more than a few careless words at dinner to undo our bond.”

Relief crossed Marius' face, a cautious smile following in it's wake, “Very well,” he said, and then suddenly sat bolt upright, “Oh!” he exclaimed, “I almost forgot!”

With that he dove into a basket that was sitting at his feet, retrieving from it a simple black box and brandishing it proudly.

“As we left the restaurant last night Courfeyrac informed me that yesterday was your birthday,” he said.

Enjolras fought back a grimace, “Marius---”

“I am afraid I did not know what would be to your taste, but---”

“Marius, this is not necessary---”

“I insist.”

He all but forced the box into Enjolras' hands, waiting expectantly for him to open it; it seemed the giving of the gift was more for Marius' benefit than Enjolras', and so Enjolras bit his tongue and accepted it.

“If it will please you,” he said, feeling Marius' eyes fixed upon him; inside the box was a fine, elegantly made silk cravat, formal in length and champagne in colour.

“Thank you,” he said, “It is lovely.”

“I am glad to see you like it. We debated somewhat as to the colour...” Marius looked to Cosette, unsure.

“Yes,” Cosette said, “I suggested crimson – the colour would compliment your hair well – but Marius told me that that would not be considered appropriate...”

“That is probably for the best, yes,” Enjolras agreed, running one hand over the fabric of the cravat, “This colour is charming. Thank you, again. It was not necessary...”

“Not necessary, no, but a gesture I wished to make regardless. We were united as brothers on the barricade,” Marius said, “And what brother forgets his brother on his birthday?”

“I appreciate that.” Enjolras said, passing the box to Grantaire and getting to his feet, “Now I am sure you both have prior commitments – I would not like to keep you from them...”

“Oh. Actually---”

“Your young daughter,” Enjolras reminded them, “Surely you are most eager to return home to her?”

“Well, yes, but we would be happy to stay a while longer,” Marius said, apparently blind to social cues, “If it is no trouble, of course?”

Enjolras floundered, mouth going dry, “Oh,” he said, “Well, I would enjoy that immensely, of course, but I am afraid I may have some matters to attend to...”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Ah, Enjolras, for shame!” Grantaire piped up, “There is no need to hurry them out! Your appointments can surely wait for an old friend? Why do you not at least introduce Pontmercy to your children?”

Enjolras whirled around to face him, hoping to convey with his eyes alone that he would find himself paying for his comment once Marius and his wife had gone. What was he playing at? When they were alone again Enjolras was going to murder him. 

“Oh, yes!” Marius said, elated, “I would so love to meet them, Enjolras!”

Biting back a resolute 'no', Enjolras turned to Marius again, “I am not sure now is a good time,” he said, “They are taking breakfast---”

“I am sure they are finished by now, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, “It has been quite a while. Would you like me to go and fetch them?”

Enjolras curled his hands into fists at his side, “Very well,” he said through gritted teeth, “If you would be so kind, Grantaire...”

“Ah, you know me, mon ange,” Grantaire held one hand to his chest as though in piety, his grin insufferably smug, “I am the very kindest. Excuse me, Monsieur, Madame,” he nodded to Marius and Cosette. 

“You and Monsieur Grantaire share these rooms, then?” Cosette asked when Grantaire had left the room; her smile was innocent, but there was something knowing behind her eyes that made Enjolras uneasy.

“Yes,” He said, flustered, “The company is nice.”

“I am sure it is - especially given the absence of your dear wife.”

Enjolras swallowed hard, feeling distinctly as though he were being tested; “Yes,” he said, “It is...some great comfort to me.”

“I would think so.” Cosette said, as Grantaire returned with Camille and François in tow, ushering them forward.

“Thank you,” Enjolras muttered, lining the two boys up side by side in front of him, “May I present my sons; Camille and François,” he said,“Boys, this is Monsieur and Madame Pontmercy. Monsieur Pontmercy is an old friend of mine...”

“It is lovely to meet you both; I have known your father for a very long time.” Marius said, “He is a great man. I am sure you both shall grow to be the same.”

His gaze came to rest on Camille, taking in the boy's features, from his sharp jawline to his ink black curls. His eyes clouded with confusion, and then thinly concealed shock that Enjolras did not fail to notice.

“They...uh...have a great deal of your likeness, Enjolras...” he said charitably, glancing at Cosette as though to gauge her reaction. Enjolras did not miss the significant look that passed between them.

“Grantaire, do you mind if I ask how long have you been living with Enjolras and his wife, exactly...?”

“Oh, some nine years now,” Grantaire said; Enjolras could see him battle with the urge to laugh. It was easy to guess what Marius was thinking when he looked at Camille. With Grantaire hovering in the doorway the resemblance between the two of them was uncanny.

Grantaire gave a lop-sided smile, “Why do you ask, Pontmercy?”

“Just curiosity...”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, “Ah, Enjolras - here comes dear Cecile with your lovely daughter!”

Enjolras bristled, awkwardly taking Marianne from the maid as she entered the room with the sleepy infant against her shoulder.

“This is Marianne,” he introduced, grimacing as the baby began to wail.

“Oh, she is such a dear!” Cosette said, eyes lighting up, “And she looks so like you!”

“Yes. She does, I suppose. Thank you...” Enjolras said, unsettled by comment. He did not need reminding – it was apparent, and it made a knot form in his gut whenever he thought about it. There was a portrait of him as infant on the wall of his parents' home, Marianne so reminiscent of it that Enjolras could not help but feel uneasy whenever he looked upon her. What if, as she grew, she resembled him so much so that people began to look more closely at him? What if she grew into the same face, the same eyes, the same lips, and those around him began to notice his feminine features, more pronounced by his daughter's close resemblance to him? That his child might be his downfall through not fault of her own was a sickening thought to him.

“May I hold her?” Cosette asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Of course.” he said, perhaps a little too eager as he handed her over. The instant Cosette took her from him the child's cries died down, so noticeably more content in the young woman's arms that it caused an uncomfortable silence to settle in the room. 

“She is absolutely delightful,” Cosette said, swaying on her feet to soothe her, “And not much older than our sweet Marie. We shall have to get them together,” she decided, “They shall be fast friends, I am certain of it!”

“Yes,” Marius said enthusiastically, “And you ought invite your wife to visit us here in Paris, Enjolras,” he urged, “When she is well enough, of course...”

Enjolras cleared his throat, “That may be difficult,” he said, avoiding eye-contact as he steered Camille and François towards the door, “Madame Enjolras is not much fond of traveling, least of all Paris. She far prefers the country.”

“Will she not grace us with her presence even for a weekend?”

“Now my love, do not press,” Cosette advised, “I am sure she would love to visit, but she remains out of the city for her health...” she shot Enjolras a poignant look, and Enjolras felt his heart stutter.

“Yes,” he said, picking up from where she had left off, “She needs the fresh air.”

“Very well,” Marius said, evidently disappointed, “A pity, though – I would have so liked to meet the woman who won your affections! She must be a rare creature.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said; if only Marius knew just how rare such a woman truly was, “She is.”

“Who?” Camille asked loudly, looking bewildered by the conversation going on around him.

“Camille, go along now, with your brother,” Enjolras said hastily, gesturing for Cecile to remove them from the room. She took Marianne from a reluctant Cosette and herded the two boys away as quickly as she could, dismissing herself with another small courtesy.

Marius watched them go, still apparently distracted by the sight of Camille.

“Your eldest is very handsome,” he said, “And bright, I am sure...”

“Oh so bright,” Grantaire agreed from where he was now lounging across the chaise, “Such an intelligent and thoughtful child. He gets it from Enjolras, of course.”

“No doubt.” Marius said, brow creased.

“Though it also seems to me that he has a devilish streak,” Grantaire put in, “He can be quite the little hellion...”

Marius nodded, visibly uncomfortable, “I imagine so...”

“Anyone would think he gets such traits from me,” Grantaire remarked, grinning, “But then they do say children can grow to resemble those around them, do they not? And I have had quite the hand in raising him.”

“Yes. I am sure you have.” Marius said, now looking quite upset, “We had ought to leave, now,” he decided suddenly, getting to his feet.

“So swiftly?” Grantaire cried, “I had thought you said you wished to stay a while? Can we not offer you lunch? Cecile is new, and so I cannot yet attest to her culinary skill, but I am sure we have something to your taste in the larder---”

“No, no,” Marius said hurriedly, placing his top hat on his head and not daring to look at either of them, “I forgot that we have a prior engagement that requires my attention...”

Cosette smiled sweetly, all politeness and easy grace that juxtaposed almost laughably with Marius' panic to leave.

“Forgive us our hasty departure,” she said, “But we are quite busy today.”

“Of course, of course,” Grantaire took her hand, kissing it, “Until the next time, Madame,”

“Yes, yes, that's enough of that,” Marius said, alarmed, “Come now, Cosette...”

“Very well,” Cosette's gaze shifted to Enjolras for a moment, so piercing that he felt as though she could see his soul, “Thank you for having us,” she said.

“You are quite welcome,” Enjolras managed.

He waited until he heard the front door close behind them before collapsing back onto the chaise with a groan.

“You did that on purpose!” he despaired, “I do not even want to imagine what Pontmercy is now thinking!”

“I am sure he thinks your wife a fallen woman and me a terrible scoundrel.” Grantaire said, looking so pleased that it became clear to Enjolras that that was the desired outcome.

“It serves you right that you should endure a little humiliation. You could not have said you have two children, and let me claim one of them for my own?”

Enjolras winced, “I am sorry...”

“You ought to be. Camille is the very image of me, you could have at least given me him!”

“I did not think...”

“Of course you did not. You are all heart, mon chéri," Grantaire said, inspecting the cravat that Marius had gifted Enjolras, “This is very fine indeed. Would you care terribly if I borrow it some time?”

Enjolras did not answer, huffing slightly, “Pontmercy is most likely outraged by your antics,” he said, more to himself than to Grantaire, “Did you not see how quickly he departed once he met the children? He was gone like a cat with it's tail on fire.”

“What a terrible image to evoke,” Grantaire smirked, “Oh come now – do not pout so! Marius shall never breathe a word of his thoughts to anyone, he is as timid as a mouse.”

“If you are so certain. You still ought not have played with him so cruelly.”

Grantaire snorted, “I wanted Camille for my own. It is unfair I should be supposedly childless – I have worked just as hard to raise them as you have. I am sure this meeting rectified that, even if it is unspoken.”

“You are terrible,” Enjolras concluded, shaking his head.

“And yet you endure me anyway,” Grantaire sat down beside him, pulling him closer, “Come, let me make it up to you...”

“I am still feeling wretched,” Enjolras argued, finding that for all his attempts to remain angry it was impossible to do so when Grantaire was looking at him in such a way, his voice husky and his face so close to his. 

“Well I can most assuredly change that...” Grantaire said, sweeping a little of his hair away from his face, “Come, we can bicker about this far more in the bedroom...”

Enjolras could not find it in himself to disagree.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back from a long hiatus due to moving house and writing the web series! Updates hopefully will be a regular thing again.

Combeferre watched as the letter curled and withered into ashes in the hearth. It had come early that morning before the sun was even up, delivered to him by a gamin who had refused to relinquish it until he had handed over no less than twenty francs for his trouble. Combeferre could hardly blame him for demanding such a steep fee; after 1832 many street urchins had grown wary of running errands for would-be revolutionaries. Seeing the pang of hunger in the child's hollow cheeks Combeferre had made it twenty-five, and thanked the boy in earnest as he'd sent him on his way.

“My god, what in heaven's name do you have the fire burning for?” Courfeyrac cried as he entered the room, fanning himself with one hand. His face was red and the humidity had rendered his usually bouncy curls miserably lifeless.

“The weather is still sweltering.” he said, as though he thought Combeferre had somehow failed to notice, “Are you hoping to roast us both to death in our own drawing room?”

Combeferre shook his head, turning over the ashes at the bottom of the hearth to snuff out the last of the flames, “Forgive me,” he said, “I received a letter from Claudel and did not think it wise to hold onto it once I was finished with it.”

“And you could not think of a better way to dispose of it than to cook us?” Courfeyrac complained.

“I am sorry.”

“Rightly so. What did Claudel have to report? No bad news, I hope?”

“No bad news, no,” Combeferre said, “They are meeting this afternoon at Cafe Laurent and request that I bring Enjolras along with me.”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac said, and his brow creased in a way that Combeferre had come to know was disapproval.

“And are you going to?”

“Of course. I have very little choice in the matter,” Combeferre said with shrug, turning to look back at the embers as they faded in the blackened fireplace, “If he learns that I went without him I would no doubt find myself subjected to his wrath.”

“He does not need to know,” Courfeyrac said, suddenly closer; Combeferre felt his hand on his arm, gentle but persuasive, “We do not have to tell him...”

“I cannot lie to him,” Combeferre said, “Not about matters which mean so much to him...”

“I thought you now wished to save him from all of this? I thought you had changed your opinions?” Courfeyrac pressed, his grip on Combeferre's sleeve becoming a fraction tighter, “We spoke of sabotaging his efforts, did we not? I know I did not imagine it. My mind is not so addled by the years of opiates that it would fabricate such a thing.”

“Yes, we did,” Combeferre said, pulling his arm free, “But it is not as simple as it seems, Courfeyrac. I confess that I am torn.”

“Torn in which way?”

“Every way,” Combeferre muttered, “I want my dear friend back – back to how he was before that June - and yet in the very same moment I wish for him to remember his family, and the responsibility that he has to them.”

“He cannot do both," Courfeyrac pointed out, “It is not in Enjolras' nature.”

“I know that. He is too single-minded. He was never a man that could be split in half. He has always been everything or nothing; total victory or total defeat, total love or total indifference. There are no fractions of Enjolras' heart, nor enough of it to go around.”

Courfeyrac sighed, “He is a curse to himself, I swear.”

“I do not know what to do, Courfeyrac.”

“If he wishes to go to the barricades – if it should come to that – then he will go. No power on earth or in heaven could stop him.”

Combeferre looked down into the ashes of the hearth, as though hoping the answers might manifest there.

“I do not think I would not even try to.” he confessed, little more than a whisper.

Courfeyrac was quiet for a long while – so long that Combeferre began to think he had left the room. “I do love you, Combeferre,” he said eventually, his voice heavy, “But I am learning more and more that you are a terribly inconsistent man.”

Courfeyrac's words haunted Combeferre all the way to Enjolras' apartments, and they haunted him because he could not deny the truth of them however he may have liked to. There was a duality of conscience that Combeferre knew he would soon have to face; an unavoidable conflict of interests, an inevitable war between what he wanted for himself and what he knew to be right. If it came back to a barricade, back to blood and carbines and acrid smoke, Combeferre wanted the revolutionary at his side, and yet at the same time he wanted the Enjolras that was a father and husband to remain safely at home, so that the blood of his family would not stain Combeferre's own hands.

Selfishly, impossibly, he wished for both incarnations of Enjolras to exist separately - to be able to portion off parts of him to different fates. It was something Combeferre could not reconcile, and it dogged him with every step.

Cecile greeted him at the door when he reached Enjolras' lodgings, guiding him down the hallway. Her face was flushed and her hair awry, and Combeferre could not but help but smirk, for he was certain he knew the reason; he had only spent one afternoon minding Enjolras' children but they had proven themselves menaces. He pitied the young housemaid, and wondered if she had known quite the extent of what she was signing on for when she had taken the job. Camille would have certainly enlightened her by now, if not.

He found Enjolras sitting in a wing-backed chair in the middle of the parlour, sunlight pooled around him, golden and glorious. He wore only a pair of doeskin trousers and a plain linen shirt, his hair loose and falling in radiant waves down his front. It took Combeferre a moment to notice Grantaire tucked away in the corner behind his easel, but when he did the purpose of Enjolras' place in the middle of the room became apparent.

He hesitated to make his presence known, feeling as though he were trespassing on something deeply intimate; Grantaire could have easily seen him in the doorway from his position in the room, but his eyes were locked onto Enjolras so intensely that it was as though nothing else in the world existed.

He cleared his throat, rapping gently on the open door.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras startled slightly, turning to face him; he looked momentarily flustered, as though embarassed to have been interrupted in the act of modelling.

“Combeferre,” he said, moving swiftly to tie his hair back as though to see him with it loose was to see him naked, “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

“Forgive me my intrusion,” Combeferre said, nodding politely to Grantaire, who had set his paintbrush down with an audible sigh of annoyance, “But I was wondering if I could steal you for a little while?”

“To what end?” Grantaire muttered, “I was just making fine progress, Monsieur. This light does not last very long and I had planned to get the gold of his hair down today...”

“My apologies,” Combeferre said, “But some friends of mine are meeting at Cafe Laurent and I have been asked to extend the invitation to Enjolras...”

Grantaire's eyes narrowed at Combeferre's words, and it was clear that he knew the weight behind them enough to be displeased.

“Oh,” he said, “How lovely. No invitation for me, I suppose?”

Combeferre hesitated, unsure whether or not he ought to extend it to him anyway and apologise to the group when they arrived. He did not think it would be very well received; unlike Les Amis, Renaud and Claudel's circle were less prone to humouring those with different attitudes to their own. Grantaire's presence would go down about as well as a cat in an avery, and Renaud could have a monstrous temper.

“No,” he said eventually, “I am afraid not this time.”

“Or any time thereafter,” Grantaire assumed, going back to his canvas, “Anyone would think it were something other than a harmless lunch date.”

Combeferre clenched his jaw, turning his attention back to Enjolras, who had now risen from the chair and picked up his waistcoat.

“Will Claudel and Renaud be there...?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes,” Combeferre informed him, folding his arms behind his back, “It was they who invited you.”

Enjolras lit up at the news, “Ah! Very well, then. I am quite sure Grantaire can manage without me for a few hours.” he glanced over at his husband, “Yes?”

“I suppose,” Grantaire said, visibly irritated, “But should they try to lure you into running off to a barricade, do spare the children and I a passing thought on your way there.”

Enjolras huffed as he buttoned up his waistcoat, “You need not be so sour about it,” he said, “It is only lunch.”

“If you say so. And it is in my nature to be sour, you know that. Run along now, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, starting to clear up his art equipment, “You are needed at Cafe Laurent.”

Enjolras did not stay to argue, instead taking Combeferre's arm and leading him from the room, “I am thrilled that they should want me there,” he confessed, leaning close to him as though he were divulging some great secret, “I had rather worried they would not care to invite me along again after I went back to the country, but I did not wish to press to issue.”

“Well fear not, it transpires that they still regard you highly,” Combeferre said, “Will Grantaire be alright with my borrowing you?”

“You are not borrowing me, Combeferre, I am going of my own volition.” Enjolras said indignantly, lifting his chin, “I may be wed, but I am answerable only to myself. I am not something that can be borrowed. Come, then - I look forward to seeing your friends once more.”

 

* * *

 

 

They walked to Cafe Laurent arm in arm, Enjolras asking at length about the group the whole way there. His desperation for their approval was almost pitiful in nature, and Combeferre found himself wondering fleetingly if he thought them and their group a substitute for the ones he had lost in 1832. He wanted to stop him, to lay his hands on his shoulders to ground him to earth and remind him that Les Amis were gone, and these men - however noble their intentions - were not them and never would be. But there was a flame in Enjolras' eyes when he spoke of the group that Combeferre had long since thought extinguished, and he could not bear the thought of being the one to snuff it out.

They were the first to arrive at the bistro, finding a table at the back of the room and ordering lunch as they waited for the others to join them.

“How is Grantaire's piece coming along?” Combeferre asked conversationally; he knew very little about the world of art, but he supposed it was polite to inquire.

“Well enough, I imagine,” Enjolras said, helping himself to the bread on the table, “He is surprisingly finicky about his work. I do not understand it, in truth.”

“Well that is the way of artists, is it not?”

“Grantaire does not consider himself an artist,” Enjolras told him, “He refuses to. He claims he failed abysmally as an apprentice and that his pieces are little more than the idle creations of his boredom – yet he spends hours perfecting them!” he scoffed.

“Well I am sure he simply longs to do you justice,” Combeferre said, “It is meant for you as your birthday gift after all, is it not?”

Enjolras shrugged, “Yes,” he said, “Though I think it is as much for his enjoyment as mine.”

“How so?”

“He seems to take great pleasure in having me model for him,” Enjolras said.

“Oh?”

“I have posed for him a few times in the past; only sketches, mind.” he turned a little pink, “I will leave it at that.”

Combeferre laughed, thanking the waiter as their food was brought over to them, “Nothing lewd, I hope?”

“You will go to your grave wondering.” Enjolras said with a wry smile.

Combeferre could not help but be amused, “In that case I shall lay that subject to rest,” he said, “Are the children settling well in Paris?”

“I believe so. Camille likes it very much, and it seems François is slowly warming to it. This city will be good for them,” he decided firmly, “They are my boys, after all. They belong in Paris.”

“And Marianne?”

Enjolras scowled as though in confusion, “Marianne is still small,” he said, stirring his soup slowly, “She does not know anything else.”

“Is she coming along well, at least?”

“I suppose.” Enjolras said, with such a dismissive air that Combeferre felt himself shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“Forgive me, Enjolras, but...Courfeyrac and I could not help but notice that you do not spend as much time with her as you do her brothers.”

“I am not good with infants.” Enjolras said bluntly, as though that excused his neglect.

“Grantaire tells me you were excellent with Camille,” Combeferre said.

“It was different with Camille.” Enjolras defended, “He is my first born. He made me a father; the wonder of it all was still fresh to me. I enjoyed him immensely, with his small hands and his first smiles.”

“And you do not enjoy the others?”

Enjolras did not look up at him, “I am not meant to be a parent, Combeferre. I am poorly qualified for the position.”

“Yet you continue to share a bed with Grantaire...”

“Yes, and I ask you do not vex me about it.” Enjolras said, “If I could wish myself barren I would do so. Would be that I was cursed with my mother's empty womb; she struggled for years to have me, and yet I find myself burdened with fertility even when I do not desire it's fruit.”

“Well, I would urge that you pay more heed to your daughter, at any rate," Combeferre said, “She needs you to be present, Enjolras...”

“Cecile is a good enough nanny,” Enjolras stated, “She is fine without my interference.”

“Interference? Is that what you call being a father?”

“What other name is there for it?”

“Enjolras---”

“This onion soup is terrible,” Enjolras objected suddenly, pushing the bowl away and wrinkling his nose in disgust, “It is bitter to the taste. I thought you rated the food here highly?”

“I do,” Combeferre said, feeling almost affronted on the cook's behalf; it seemed to him that Enjolras was looking for an excuse to change the subject.

“You liked it well enough the last time you were here,” he said, taking a spoonful of Enjolras' soup to taste it; “It tastes perfectly fine to me.”

Enjolras snorted, but let the matter drop, “When will they be here?” he asked.

“Soon,” Combeferre assured him, pulling the bowl to him; if Enjolras would not eat it then he would not let it go to waste.

Almost as though on cue a head of auburn hair appeared in the doorway.

“Citizen Combeferre!” Claudel called, throwing out his arms in a warm greeting, “You are back from your country excursion and you received my note!”

“Indeed I did,” Combeferre nodded, gesturing to Enjolras, “You remember my dear friend Enjolras, do you not?”

“How could I ever forget!” Claudel said brightly, thumping Enjolras heartily on the back as he joined them at the table, “I am pleased that you could join us!”

“I am here for good now,” Enjolras informed him, smiling, “I have relocated to Paris with my hu—with my family,”

“Ah, that is wonderful news!” Claudel said, “So you shall be among us more often, then?”

“If you will have me,” Enjolras said, sitting up straighter.

“If we will have me, he says!” Claudel laughed, “As though we would turn out a man of his calibre! Any good Republican man is welcome at our table. We will name you one of our group, if it pleases you.”

Combeferre saw Enjolras puff up his chest a little, seeming to swell with pride at the invitation.

“I will do all I can to be of value to you.” he vowed.

“I know you will, my friend,” Claudel patted his arm, looking up suddenly as Renaud strolled into the bistro with three other men, the four of them holding a rather animated conversation about a young coquette one of them was involved with.

“Ah, Renaud!” he cried, getting to his feet to wave them over, “Combeferre and his friend from Limoges are here! Come join us! It seems that there is soup to spare!”

 

* * *

 

 

It was later than Combeferre had planned when they left Cafe Laurent; he had not glanced at his watch, but it was growing dark around them, even with the summer nights still light and balmy. It must have been past ten, at the very least. There was a spring in Enjolras' step as they made the walk back to their lodgings, Combeferre observed. He was in high spirits, rambling about the evenings events with great vigour.

“Oh Combeferre, it is such a joy to be among other like-minded men again,” he said as they walked along the river; the light from the street lanterns was sparkling on the surface of the Seine, and a cool evening breeze blew off the water, a refreshing reprieve from the stifling weather.

“They like you very much,” Combeferre assured him, as though able to guess Enjolras' concerns.

“Good,” Enjolras said, “I like them too.”

“Do they remind you of Les Amis?”

Enjolras slowed a little, the smile dropping from his face, “Is it such a crime if they do?”

“No,” Combeferre said cautiously, “But you must remember that they are not them.”

“I know that. Do you think that I don't?”

“Sometimes one can hope too much for a memory.”

Enjolras sighed, linking his arm with Combeferre's, “Maybe then can be greater than Les Amis,” he said quietly, “Maybe they can succeed where we failed.”

“Maybe,” Combeferre agreed.

_Or maybe they shall make the same mistakes._

He dropped Enjolras off at the door to his lodgings, the two of them embracing tightly for a moment.

“Thank you, my friend,” Enjolras said against his shoulder, “For bringing me along.”

“It was they that requested your presence, not I.”

“But you who introduced me to them,” Enjolras pointed out, “And for that I am grateful.”

“Well, you are welcome, in that case,” Combeferre said, though he was starting to feel guilt coil in his stomach, “Goodnight, Enjolras. Sleep well.”

“I am sure I shall,” Enjolras said, releasing him, “The excitement wears off and exhaustion seeps into my bones, it seems. Goodnight, brother.”

As Combeferre made the short walk back to his and Courfeyrac's apartment he wondered if he ought to feel shame for enabling the night's events. When Combeferre had first become involved with Renaud and Claudel's group it had been innocent enough, in his mind. They had been dedicated to changing laws, striving for change through legal means and education, but for some time now the group had whispered of insurrection, many of them starting to think that the pistol would be a quicker resolution than the pen.

Combeferre agreed to some degree; it certainly would be swifter - what he doubted was that it would be successful.

And yet, a part of him dared hope – and that part of him much have been far larger than he deigned to admit, for here he was pulling Enjolras back into dangerous revolutionary circles. He was a hypocrite to chastise Enjolras for the neglect of his children, when Combeferre's own words and actions might see them left without him entirely.

He was, as Courfeyrac had stated that very morning, and inconsistent man.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, it updated.
> 
> Warning for some pretty heavy shit in this one. Like, really. Something I don't see much acknowledgement of is that PTSD isn't just flashbacks and being depressed, it's also rage and unchecked emotions and ugly things. And so far we've seen a lot of how it's impacted Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but...well...

“For heavens sake!”

“Enjolras, I am so sorry,"

“That damned tailor! Is he good for anything?” Enjolras snapped, frustration rendering him unfairly cruel in his judgement.

It had been two months since he had employed the man on Courfeyrac's recommendation, and despite his usual disdain for fashion Enjolras had found himself eagerly anticipating receiving his order. He had been meeting with Combeferre's friends at Cafe Laurent more and more of late, each time finding himself feeling sorely out of place among their well-dressed ranks. It was a simple fact of the times that a man was more like to be taken seriously in a fine waistcoat and a silk cravat than he was a tailcoat that had been repaired a dozen times. In Enjolras' opinion it rather defeated the purpose of their meetings – were they not striving to make a better word for all men? For the underpaid labourers, the beaten down workmen, the unwed mothers, the urchins in the streets? How was it that good tailoring should hold sway in a room filled with such sentiments? 

Enjolras found the whole thing quite vexing, but he was powerless to do anything but go along with it, and so when Courfeyrac had come calling on him that morning on his way back from his tailor with boxes stacked up in his arms it had seemed like a godsend.

“Your clothes are finally completed and anxiously waiting for you!” He had announced cheerfully, inviting himself inside, “Come, Enjolras – I will undo the misery of your poor sense of style immediately!”

Yes, a godsend indeed - rich velvet and fashionable cuts, with brocade lining and gold buttons. Enjolras had to confess that some vain part of his person was excited to have new clothes once again, but all that excitement had proven for naught; not a single item of clothing fit him.

Everything was too tight, too small - everything, including the red waistcoat he had been so eager to receive. 

“I am afraid I do not know what has happened,” Courfeyrac said as he stood and watched Enjolras try on garment after garment from behind a screen, “Truly, my friend – he has always produced fine work for me.”

“He has been tailoring for you for years,” Enjolras pointed out, angrily tossing a sky blue frock coat over the screen, “He knows your figure well enough by now that there is no room for error.”

“That is true, I suppose,” Courfeyrac conceded, “But still...”

“I still do not understand how he has made such a sizing error,” Enjolras complained, “He took my measurements not two months ago!”

“There may have been a mistake?” Courfeyrac supplied,“They do happen from time to time, Enjolras. A tailor is only a man, after all. If one number is off, or the handwriting is poor, it may change everything! I can take them back and see if he can alter them...”

“Yes, do that,” Enjolras said, removing the dark blue waistcoat he was wearing and stepping out from behind the dressing screen. He felt immediately guilty to see the wounded look on Courfeyrac's face - his dear friend was not the cause of his unhappiness, and it was poor conduct of him to take it out on him as though he were.

“Please,” he added, much more gently. 

Courfeyrac nodded, taking the waistcoat from him and starting to fold it, “I am sorry, my friend, truly – this is a disappointment, I am sure.”

“It is the red waistcoat that pains me the most,” Enjolras confessed, turning to where the other clothes were piled up on a chair and running one hand longingly over the scarlet points, “This was of great importance to me. It was as though to resurrect a part of myself. That it does not fit me feels prophetic – almost as though I have changed too much to wear it.”

“You are still you, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, “Only a little different; time has that effect upon us all.”

Enjolras did not respond, still tracing one finger along the red fabric.

“Well, enough of this – I shall see to getting things amended,” Courfeyrac promised, hurrying to change the subject, “It will fit you the next time you see it, I assure you. In the meantime you may wear some of my things, if it please you – we are not of quite the same measurements, I grant you that, but not so dissimilar that you cannot get away with it!”

Enjolras wasn't entirely sure how he felt about the offer – Courfeyrac's tastes were far more ostentatious than Enjolras would have ever dared from his own wardrobe. His friend was a peacock, a dandy, and though Enjolras loved him dearly for it he doubted he would pull off such bold patterns and colours with anywhere near the same grace Courfeyrac managed to.

“I shall think on it,” Enjolras said, kissing each of his cheeks in turn,“Thank you for the offer,”

“You are most welcome,” Courfeyrac said, clasping Enjolras' hand in his own, “Would you join me for lunch? I had planned to stop in at Cafe Voltaire, they have fine menu on this time of day!”

Enjolras shook his head, “I am feeling out of sorts today,” he said, “I fear my stomach would not agree with such rich food.”

“Oh, come now! Let me treat you!”

“I must regrettably decline,”

Courfeyrac huffed, “Very well – your loss, my friend!”

 

-

 

It was another twenty minutes before Courfeyrac finally took his leave, his tophat sitting askew on his head and the boxes of clothes balanced precariously in his arms. Enjolras saw him off at the door, finding himself suddenly face to face with Cecile when he turned back into the house.

“Monsieur!” she cried, voice ringing with relief when she saw him, “Monsieur, you must come immediately!”

Enjolras did not even have the opportunity to ask her what was the matter before she was dragging him down the hall by his sleeve.

“Cecile, what is the meaning of this?” he demanded, tearing himself free.

“It is urgent!” Cecile insisted, “Your son, and Monsieur Grantaire– in the study, I...” her voice trembled as she spoke, and noticing this a horrible knot began to form deep in Enjolras' stomach.

“You must come immediately,” she repeated. 

 

-

 

When they reached the door to his study Cecile turned on her heel and bolted like a frightened horse, hurrying off in the direction of the scullery and leaving Enjolras alone to face what was unfolding inside. Grantaire was stood with his back to him, fixed on something Enjolras could not see. 

“Grantaire...?”

“You!” Grantaire whirled around to face him with such ferocity that Enjolras took an involuntary step back, “You ought to put a damn lock on the door of your study!” 

“What on earth are you talking about?” Enjolras said, stunned by his sudden anger. 

“I consented to move to Paris to make you happy,” Grantaire said, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “But I did _not_ consent to you turning our son into another foolish revolutionary!” he moved his finger to instead point across the room, and Enjolras, following it with his eyes, finally noticed Camille.

The boy had a book in his hands and his back to the wall, shrinking down as though frightened.

_Frightened._

That Grantaire had inspired such fear in their son made the bile rise in Enjolras' throat.

“You are scaring him,” He said coldly, “Lower your voice.”

“Do not tell me what I ought to do!” Grantaire snapped, “Not when you are turning our child into your apprentice! He is a _boy_ , Enjolras, not a revolutionary!”

“I did not foster this!” Enjolras bristled, “I did not even know of this until now!”

“That is worse, then!” Grantaire decided, his voice dripping with contempt, “It means he did it of his own making. It is in his very nature because of _you_! Your blood will lead him to a barricade, mark my words!”

“It won't. We will not let that happen,” Enjolras vowed, finally daring to take a step towards him. Never before in all their years together had Enjolras been frightened of Grantaire, but there was a look in his eyes now that boiled somewhere between hurt and rage, and it was so intense that it had every hair on the back of Enjolras' neck standing on end. 

“Really?” Grantaire said, sneering, “And do you truly think you have the power to stop it? I have stood by silently as you attend your lunch dates with Combeferre and his friends, knowing what they truly are. I have seen the articles you have been penning anonymously. Do you think I do not know what you intend?”

“Grantaire...”

“Are you truly foolish enough to think that what you plan will have no impact on our children? And on Camille, most of all? Your ideals will be his ruin, Enjolras!”

Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, but Camille beat him to it, running forward to put himself in between them like a wall. There was courage in his face that ill fit a child so young. 

“I'm sorry, father!” he cried, “He didn't know I was in here, I promise! Do not be angry with him. I went without his permission. I just wanted to read!”

“Go to your room, Camille,” Grantaire ordered, voice hard. 

“But father---”

“Camille, I will not ask again,” Grantaire warned, “Leave – your father and I must speak.”

“No!” Camille argued, “I do not want you to fight! I won't go!”

“Camille---”

“No!”

It happened so swiftly that Enjolras that very nearly missed it; anger flashed quick as lightning in Grantaire's eyes, and he raised one hand, stopping just short of striking the boy.

Almost instinctively Enjolras seized Camille by the arm, dragging him protectively behind him. He spun towards his desk, snatching the first thing that came to hand and brandishing it in front of him like a weapon. 

There was a beat of silence, like the stillness that followed on the tails of a gunshot, and then Enjolras' vision cleared and he realised  what he had seized from his desk was a letter opener. He was holding the pointed end mere inches from the hollow of Grantaire's throat, so close he would have only had to thrust forward a few inches to cut him. 

For a moment he was horrified, stunned by his own actions - but then he felt Camille tremble against him and he steadied his hand, tightening his grip on the letter opener.

“If you ever raise a hand to my son again,” he said calmly, “I will _kill_ you.”

The whole atmosphere in the room shifted in an instant; Grantaire swallowed hard, his breath audibly hitching. There was shock and horror in his eyes, Enjolras saw, but that look swiftly faded into something that resembled admiration.

 _He wishes someone would have done the same for him when he was a child,_ he realised.

“You would not need to,” Grantaire said finally, “If I ever went to do so again I would do it myself.”

Enjolras' jaw twitched, but he did not lower the letter opener - he could not. His fingers trembled, but his face remained hard.

“Please. I swear it,” Grantaire whispered, “You would not need to.”

The look on his face was pitiful, but honest; Enjolras scoffed with revulsion, all of the tension suddenly leaving his body at once. He shook his head, throwing the letter opener back onto the desk. He heard it land with a loud clatter among his papers. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, his voice small, “I am so sorry...”

“I know what is in your past. I know what your father did,” Enjolras said quietly, “And I know that it is not in your nature to do the same. But if you even let it cross your mind again...”

“I know,” Grantaire's voice cracked, “I know, Enjolras...”

Fleetingly Enjolras found himself wondering if he would have threatened Grantaire's life in defence of François or Marianne; the doubt that crossed his mind made his insides writhe with guilt.

Whether it was out of this guilt or still out of anger Enjolras did not know, but he could not bring himself to look at Grantaire, instead running his fingers frantically through Camille's hair, “Run along, Camille,” he said, “Go to your room.”

Camille did not need telling again; he fled the room, running up the stairs, and Enjolras had half a mind to follow after him, to pull him aside and offer him comfort. But he had never been good at such things, and he did not know what he would say to him at any rate.

“I do not know what came over me.” Grantaire said lowly, sinking down into to chair in front of Enjolras' desk, “Truly. I swear, it is not...I am not...” he shook his head, “I would never...”

“So you say,” Enjolras muttered, “But you nearly did.”

“I know. I am afraid, Enjolras - I know such things do not justify my actions, but I do not know what to do. I fear his future. I fear what your blood is bringing forth in him. I cannot lose him. I could not lose him – nor François, nor Marianne...”

Enjolras swallowed hard, “I know...”

“I do not think that you do.” Grantaire said, “You were never fond of children. I understand that. But they are the best of my life, Enjolras. To lose them to a barricade, to lose them at all...”

“You never speak to me of the barricades. In all these years you have barely uttered a word of them,” Enjolras said, “Why? You were there too.”

“I do not want to dwell on it,” Grantaire confessed, “I cannot. You saw so much more there than I. I slumbered through most of the horrors, I do not feel I have the right to ache over it as you do...”

“You have every right. Your friends died too.”

“And where was I, when they did? Sleeping. I could have helped them – I ought to have at least done my part. I could have taken one bullet for Joly or Bossuet. I would have, gladly.”

Enjolras frowned, “Why have you never spoken of this before? This guilt?”

Grantaire cast his gaze to the floor, “You needed me to be whole,” he said weakly, “You were hurting. You needed me to lean on.”

Enjolras picked up the book that he realised Camille must have been reading, running one hand over the damaged spine, “Keeping this inside you nearly turned you into the manner of man you despise,” he said.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said his name as though it caused him physical pain, “Forgive me, please...”

“You should leave,” Enjolras said, “Go and apologise to Camille, not me; it is his forgiveness you ought to beg, not mine.”

Grantaire stared at him for a moment, looking as though he wanted to fall to his knees at Enjolras' feet for his crime, but then did as he was bid.

Enjolras set the book down on the desk, exhausted from the fight; he felt physically sick, his stomach quaking with a mix of emotions. He remained there for a moment,gripping the edge of the desk, and then finally his body decided it was about to relinquish what he'd eaten that morning – he rushed across the room to a waste basket filled with old notes, crouching down to vomit.

He grimaced at the taste it left in his mouth, clutching one hand to his stomach as he waited for the feeling to pass.

As he knelt there, shaking from the confrontation and feeling the world shifting in and out of alignment, a horrible, dreadful thought came over him. He inhaled sharply, digging his nails into his abdomen through the cotton of his shirt.

No.

_No._

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, some pretty deep conversations, so like, be prepared.

“Combeferre?”

Combeferre startled, turning his attention from his desk to find Enjolras standing in the doorway to his study, his face stony and his lips pursed. His cheeks were red and frost bitten from the cold, and his hair was windswept, evidence that he had walked there from his own apartments.

“My god, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, fiddling with his glasses, “You took me quite by surprise! How did I not hear you come in?”

“The door is unlocked,” Enjolras reported, pulling off his gloves, “And the doorman to your building is terribly lax about his duty. He let me past without even a question as to my person. You ought to speak to him.”

“I will,” Combeferre said, setting down his pen, “Are you quite alright? You seem a little out of sorts...”

“Is it so obvious?”

“Somewhat. You look unhappy.”

“I am with child again.” Enjolras said bluntly, dispensing with any niceties he might have usually leant to their conversation.

“Oh,” Combeferre said, knowing full well that it was an inadequate response. He frowned.

“That is...well---”

“Terrible.” Enjolras stated, “It is terrible. I do not want this.”

“I did not wish to presume...”

“You may presume away,” Enjolras said, “I make no secret of my lack of parental instinct.”

“I am sorry. Do you know how far along you are?”

“Some few months, I would suppose,” Enjolras said, waving it away dismissively, “Not so far along as to complicate my reason for being here.”

Combeferre furrowed his brow, “And what is that reason?” he asked.

“You are a doctor.”

“Yes. And?”

“And I need you to make this go away.”

“Go away?” Combeferre echoed, raising his eyebrows, “I...what do you mean, exactly?”

“Do not make me say it,” Enjolras scoffed, walking stiffly across the room to warm himself by the fire, “You know full well what I speak of. Can you do it or not?”

“I...no, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, “I could not possibly do that...”

“Why? Have you some moral qualm with the idea?” Enjolras wrinkled his nose, “If so I beg, spare me such sentiments for a time when _you_ are pregnant and do not wish to be.”

“It is not that at all, Enjolras,” Combeferre assured him, rising to his feet, “You must understand – I would not deny you that if it was within my power. But I do not know how. It is not an area in which I trained, and at any rate...I...” he hesitated, “I very nearly killed you through my ignorance when Marianne was born. Do you truly think me the right man to perform such a procedure?”

Enjolras scoffed, refusing to look at him; his hands trembled, but other than this he gave no indication that he was made in any way uneasy by the topic. It seemed to Combeferre that Enjolras had been considering this option for some time – perhaps long before this pregnancy.

“Then what do you suggest, in your infinite wisdom?” he said quietly.

“I can ask around,” Combeferre muttered, “And find you a discreet doctor who is competent enough to attempt it...”

“No,” Enjolras said immediately, bristling, “No, I shall not have any doctor but you – certainly not for this!” he grimaced, “I do not wish to be examined and scrutinized by some stranger! All the discretion in the world could not undo the humiliation I would feel under such circumstances."

“Then I have no other advice to give you, Enjolras,” Combeferre sighed, “Are you truly so set on this course of action?”

“I cannot think of any alternative,” Enjolras said, “Save perhaps a home for foundlings...”

“A home for foundlings?” Combeferre said, aghast.

“Yes. Or a convent. It did well enough for Rousseau with his children.”

“Enjolras, you know that is no fair life,” Combeferre muttered, feeling sick that Enjolras would even contemplate abandoning his child in such a heartless manner.

“It is my only remaining option.” Enjolras said matter of factly, “I do not want this.”

“I know that, but---”

“I am a bad father, Combeferre.” he said, cutting across him; there was shame in his eyes, but resignation, also, “Do not stand there and tell me otherwise. We all know it. I am a poor fit for a parent.”

Combeferre felt his shoulders sag involuntarily, as though a great weight had been set upon them. He could not deny the truth of it, much as he would have liked to. Enjolras was not made for the role of father – it was not in his nature, and something so innate could not be learned, not through experience and not through an expensive education. The ability to love a child was not a skill that could be taught.

“You are right,” he agreed, “You are a bad father.”

Enjolras dipped his head, “I know not what to do. It would be cruel to abandon the child, yes,” he said, “I am not one prone to cruelty. But would it not be more cruel still for me to feign fatherly affection so poorly for all their days?”

Combeferre looked down, “Does Grantaire know yet?” he asked.

“No,” Enjolras said, “I had rather hoped he wouldn't have to...”

“That is not wise, Enjolras,” Combeferre advised, “If he learnt of your intentions...I cannot imagine. I think him not the sort of man to object to the procedure you sought from me, but for you to follow through without _telling_ him...that is another matter entirely, Enjolras. He is your husband. You ought to talk with him, he has proven himself a surprisingly reasonable fellow...” he said, thinking back to how Grantaire had thanked him for offering to take care of his family when he had been so close to death.

“It is no use trying to keep it a secret anyway, is it?” Enjolras said miserably, “If you cannot do for me what I require, then I have pitiful other choice than to carry it to term and find someone to take it in when it is born...”

Combeferre lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, “I shall look into it for you,” he promised, “And see if there is not some alternative to the options you have before you. There may be a family that is willing to take the child in for a reasonable income - that way Grantaire may visit if he so desires. It will free you of your obligations without denying him what I am sure he will seek.”

“He loves the children,” Enjolras whispered, “More than he loves me. It makes me jealous even, I confess. He adores them, and he is a very fine father indeed – most of the time, at any rate...” a troubled look came over him as he said this.

“Most of the time?” Combeferre pressed, raising one eyebrow.

“He nearly struck Camille earlier today,” Enjolras told him, “He did not, but...he came close.”

“Oh,” Combeferre said, taken aback, “I did not imagine...”

“Neither did I. But his father punished him as such, and such things cannot be easily shaken off. They are more than just learned; they run deep, in the blood. I know he did not mean it. I know he would not do it again. But that it even entered his mind...” Enjolras winced, “I blame myself.”

“Yourself? How so?”

“He found Camille in my study, reading my books,” Enjolras confessed, “He fears Camille is following in my footsteps.”

“And is he?” Combeferre asked. He could not help but recall that afternoon when he had watched the children, when Camille had spoken so passionately about the state of the world - only eight and already astute and aware of injustice! Growing up around Enjolras it seemed only inevitable that one of the children would take the same path.

Of course it would be Camille – of course.

“I do not know,” Enjolras said, “I think perhaps he is.”

Combeferre did not know what he could say to that.

“I am sorry,” was all that he managed.

“It was unavoidable, truly,” Enjolras lamented, “But it pains Grantaire to see it. The children are his whole world. He would hate me forever for giving our child to a convent or orphanage...” he closed his eyes, “But it is the only way. I cannot continue to play this role – it is not for me, Combeferre, and it is not fair on my children. I am a revolutionary, and revolutionaries rarely enjoy the privilege of happy families.”

“I know,” Combeferre said, guilt stirring deep in his chest, “I fear that I have led you back to this point. When I found you it seemed almost that you were happy where you were...”

“No,” Enjolras said, “I was living a lie, Combeferre. This part of me never truly died, you know that.”

He did, but he still could not help but feel in some way responsible. Enjolras might have been miserable, might have been fooling himself – but at least he was safe, and his family secure from the threat of abandonment. If Enjolras died as a result of his rekindled passion for politics Combeferre feared that Grantaire would follow in due course. Had he destined Enjolras' children to be orphans? It felt as though he had. At the very least he had doomed this fourth child to a wretched future.

“Well,” He said, voice struggling past the lump in his throat, “I will not tell you what to do. It is your decision, after all. But I shall try to find a suitable alternative to a home for foundlings. There are many childless couples out there. I am sure we could find someone who would be delighted to raise the child as their own...”

At that very moment Courfeyrac burst into the room, bringing their conversation to an immediate halt. He was full of cheer and dressed to the nines, blissfully unaware of the seriousness that he had just unknowingly encroached upon. 

“Aha!” he cried, removing his top hat with a flourish, “There you are, Enjolras!"

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras forced a smile to his face, turning to embrace him, "I did not expect to see you again today..."

"It seems that you are lucky, then!" Courfeyrac jested, "I just called on the house again to invite you to dine with us this evening, but Cecile told me you were already here! What fortune!”

Enjolras shook his head, "I fear I am still not feeling up to joining you, but thank you for the offer...”

“Nonsense,” Courfeyrac scolded, holding one hand to Enjolras' forehead, “You seem well enough to me. Is something troubling you? I pray, let me treat your ailment with fine food and drink! There is no better remedy or more competent doctor than the company of a friend – ah, no offence, Combeferre.”

“None taken,” Combeferre said, adjusting his glasses, “But Enjolras was just heading home, I believe---”

“No,” Enjolras said suddenly, catching Combeferre off guard with his abrupt change of heart; there was a curious look in his eyes, something Combeferre could not quite decipher.

“No, I...I would on second thoughts be delighted to dine with you both,” he said, “I have just had the most _wonderful_ thought, Courfeyrac – I should love to talk to you both about it.”

 

 


	24. Six years later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told y'all a time skip was coming...

** Six years later. **

 

“Papa! Papa!”

It was the delighted squeals of playing children that roused Combeferre from his accounts. He looked up from his desk, smiling quite involuntarily as the two small girls came thundering into the study with Courfeyrac at their heels.

“Papa!”

Marianne led the way - she always did. At six she had become an intrepid little creature, bold and precocious and more often than not the source of any disruption in the house.

Behind her came Emmeline, who could not have differed more greatly; she was a sweet thing, demure but easily led, and even her appearance sat in stark contrast to Marianne's; where Marianne's curls were the colour of wheat Emmeline's were as dark as coal, and her eyes a deep, earthy brown next to Marianne's blue.

They were opposites in every conceivable way, and yet, Combeferre observed, utterly inseparable. It was a sisterly sort of bond, and a part of him wondered if it was some innate connection born of their shared blood that the two girls themselves knew nothing of.

“Courfeyrac!" Enjolras barked from his desk, snapping Combeferre out of his thoughts, “Will you please get the girls out of here?”

“I am sorry,” Courfeyrac said as he finally caught up to the children, lifting a giggling Emmeline into his arms, “We were only playing..."

“Well play elsewhere,” Enjolras said, unamused, “I am trying to work. This is very important." 

Courfeyrac frowned but did not argue, setting Emmeline down and reaching for to Marianne, “Come along, Marianne,” he urged, “We will go and continue our game in the parlour, where we are not in the way..."

Marianne ignored him, storming over to Enjolras' desk and standing on her tip-toes to peer at what he was writing.

“Papa, cousin Emmy has a new dress,” she said, tilting her head to try and read his handwriting, “It is blue, with lace on the bottom and flowers on it. I want one like it.”

Enjolras did not glance up from his work, “You do not need any more dresses,” he said flatly.

“But papa she looks so pretty!”

“Prettiness is not the most pressing virtue of a young lady, Marianne,” Enjolras muttered, brow creased in concentration, “And your uncle Courfeyrac spoils your cousin terribly.”

“But she has so many nice dresses, papa, and I am older than her. I should have more than her. It is not fair!”

“That is not my concern.”

“But---”

“That is final, Marianne. Go. I am busy.”

“Marianne,” Courfeyrac said again, louder and as though to remind Enjolras that he was within earshot, “Come. Leave your father to work...”

Marianne pouted, dropping back down onto her feet, “Fine,” she said, running off towards Courfeyrac, “But I still want a new dress!”

“Well maybe _I_ will see about getting you one,” Courfeyrac told her, flashing Enjolras a disapproving look, “Since your father takes such umbrage with fashion. You cannot blame him, he is _entirely_ unfamiliar with it himself...”

Enjolras let out a disparaging sound but did not turn around. 

“How many times must I say not to allow the children in here when I am working?” he mumbled, dipping his pen into the inkwell a little more aggressively than perhaps necessary, “I am not in the mood for distractions. They have broken my chain of thought entirely." 

Courfeyrac glanced back over his shoulder as he ushered the girls out, shooting Combeferre a pointed look; Combeferre did not need to wonder as to it's purpose. He set down his work, clearing his throat. 

“They were only playing, Enjolras," he said.  

“Of course you would say that - they have you wrapped around their little fingers.” Enjolras complained, “You are in alliance with them in their mischief.”

“They are two young girls that are close in age,” Combeferre said charitably, “All Marianne wants is to wear something similar to Emmeline. Envy breeds bad behaviour, Enjolras...”

“As does overindulgence.” Enjolras sniffed, signing the letter he was working on with an elegant flick of his pen, “She has no need for such frivolity. I do not see the importance of clothes she will only grow out of in a matter of months.”

Combeferre sighed, “Very well,” he said, “But I did try to warn you. She will only get worse the more you deny her...”

“I suppose you think I ought to give in to her every whim,” Enjolras said tartly, shuffling his papers, “Your approach to parenting appears to differ greatly from mine, Combeferre.”

 _Indeed it does_ , Combeferre thought privately; _I treat my daughter with the love she deserves._

“Evidently so,” He said instead, “I do not mean for you to yield to _all_ her desires, Enjolras – merely that for the price of a lace bonnet or a pretty dress you may find Marianne less prone to misbehaviour. Or even a moment of your time, perhaps - she would enjoy that even more, I imagine..."

Enjolras did not seem interested in dignifying him with a response, instead setting his finished letter aside and moving onto the next one without a word.

Combeferre shook his head, certain that it would not be the last time they had this conversation – it was hardly the first, after all. It was hard to escape such discussions, these days.

For the last five years the four of them and the children had been living together, the arrangement having been decided in the weeks following Emmeline's birth. Grantaire had insisted upon it.

The house they all shared was grand - a large town house just off Rue Saint-Antoine. It was a short walk from Place De Vosges and close enough to Place De La Bastille that it satiated Enjolras' hunger for politics. It thus followed, of course, that in being close to Place De La Bastille it was also a stones throw away from where the Corinth once stood.

Sometimes Combeferre would take a detour there on his way back from the clinic, still half expecting to come across ghosts. The building had been completely remodelled – it was hardly recognizable, and now bore the name 'Cafe Victoire' above it's door - a name even Combeferre could appreciate the irony of.

“Father?”

Combeferre did not even need to lift his head to know that it was Camille who had disturbed them this time, the boy peering into the study from around the door.

“You wished to see me?” he said.

Enjolras turned to face him, eyes lighting up in a way that Combeferre could not ignore; the reception the boy received from his father was worlds away from that which his sister had been granted.

“Ah, Camille - yes,” He said, standing, “Come, I would like you to look at this and give me your opinion.”

Camille nodded, making his way over to read the article Enjolras had finished penning that morning.

At fourteen he seemed already a man - the heavy brow and sharp jawline Grantaire had bequeathed him leant more years to his face than he had seen, and in spite of his youth he was already starting to develop the first hints of stubble above his lip and where his sideburns would one day be.

He composed himself with an upright nature and an air of maturity, and so like Enjolras he perceived nothing he did not feel was of importance. He did not stop to admire the flowers, he did not care to socialise with his peers and he showed very little consideration for the passions of art or music or poetry. All of this meant that it was disturbingly easy to mistake him for a man four years his senior, and just as easy to forget that he was little more than a child.

Camille had grown to be less Enjolras' son and more his prodigy, in Combeferre's opinion; it seemed sometimes as though Enjolras was steeling the boy for battle. He talked often of late of legacy, though not in the manner many men might – their name, their heritage, their estate – but instead speaking of inherited duty, instilling these ideals in Camille in a way that made Combeferre uneasy. 

Enjolras was not set on raising a child; he was raising a revolutionary.

“It is excellent, father,” Camille said when he was finished reading it through, giving an approving nod of his head.

“Are you quite sure of that?” Enjolras asked, arching one eyebrow.

“Yes, of course...”

“Look again.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes, going back to his accounts; Enjolras was fond of his 'lessons' as he referred to them.

“I...well, this paragraph here seems hypocritical,” Camille admitted awkwardly, pointing to the page, “It does not help your argument, merely makes it's validity questionable...”

“Good,” Enjolras said firmly; even without glancing up Combeferre could tell from the tone of his voice that he was beaming with pride, “I wrote that in on purpose, you'll know. I wanted to see if you were capable of true criticism – it does you no good to say 'yes of course' to the work of every man when you can see faults in it. My age, the fact I am your father – none of it matters in the slightest where politics are concerned. If you see something that you feel damages your cause or conflicts with your convictions, you must say so. Any good republican will thank you for the honesty.”

Camille nodded again, “Yes, father,” he said, “I will remember that.”

Enjolras smiled, patting him on the back, “There's a good lad. Now sit yourself down, we must continue our work on your handwriting. A fine hand makes the world of difference when you are penning correspondences.”

 

-

 

It was late when Combeferre was finally finished with his work – it had taken longer than it perhaps should have, but it had been difficult to truly concentrate with Enjolras schooling Camille in the ways of revolution beside him. At times he paused to listen, feeling the bile rise in his throat to hear some of the things Enjolras spoke of. It felt like it was only a matter of time before he put a gun in Camille's hands. 

When Combeferre left the study the two of them were still sitting up by candleight, going over something that Enjolras apparently considered of grave importance. Combeferre wanted to seize him by the shoulders, to shake him and remind him that Camille was little more than a boy. He wanted to scream it until his voice was hoarse, until Enjolras saw sense and abandoned his ambitions for the child.

He did not even bid them goodnight, making his way upstairs to the room he and Courfeyrac shared in silence. 

The room was dark and empty when he looked inside, and seeing this Combeferre could not help but smile to himself; it was easy to guess where Courfeyrac would be found.

He ventured a little further down the hallway to Emmeline's bedroom, hovering in the doorway and watching fondly as Courfeyrac readied her for bed, humming to himself as he wove a sky blue ribbon into her hair.

Emmeline was a beautiful little girl in a peculiar sort of way, with sharp features and a strong jawline. Sometimes Grantaire would mumble that she looked a great deal like the sister she was named for, but that was as close to an acknowledgement of her true parentage as any of them dared.

It was true to some extent what Enjolras had said earlier about Courfeyrac spoiling her – Combeferre had never known another little girl with so many toys, books or beautiful clothes. Even the nightdress she wore now was far finer than any of Marianne's, with expensive lace trim and lilac flowers embroidered up the length of it.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac could not have differed more greatly when it came to their children; Enjolras seemed to be of the opinion that such frivolities were useless, whereas Courfeyrac overindulged Emmeline to the point that Combeferre had had to step in on more than one occasion. Where he could Courfeyrac extended this generosity to Marianne as well, buying her trinkets and clothes alongside Emmeline's; each time he did Enjolras would turn his nose up in discouragement, waving the idea away. Once he had even returned a pair of beautiful new shoes to the maker, insisting that there had been a mistake. Marianne had wept for the best part of a day.

Combeferre continued to watch as Courfeyrac led Emmeline over to the bed and settled her down, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead as she began to drift off to sleep.

“She is beautiful, is she not?” he said after a moment, having evidently been aware of Combeferre's presence for some time.

“Yes, she is,” Combeferre agreed, crossing the room to join him on the edge of their daughter's bed.

“I do love her so,” Courfeyrac said, stroking Emmeline's hair as she slept, “We did not do a bad thing, did we? In taking her for ours? Enjolras was so insistent that it was us or a home for foundlings...”

“We did not do a bad thing,” Combeferre assured him for perhaps the hundredth time since Emmeline had come into their keeping, “She is greatly loved with us, Courfeyrac. You know that.”

Courfeyrac managed a weak smile, glancing at the little girl again.

“She is the greatest gift anyone could have ever given me,” he said, “But I sometimes feel as though she is stolen.”

“Enjolras would not have been a good father to her.” Combeferre reasoned, following Courfeyrac's gaze to Emmeline, “He is not even a good father to Marianne.”

“That poor child suffers terribly from his neglect,” Courfeyrac said angrily, “I do love him, but he ought to pay her more attention. She is a delightful girl – bright and spirited.”

“And a menace,” Combeferre said with amusement.

“That too,” Courfeyrac laughed, “But she will grow to be a fearsome woman – one to be reckoned with. If Enjolras neglects her he will regret it later, I am sure of it. She may be as mischievous as a kitten now, but she will be a lioness when she is grown! Enjolras would be wise to temper her with affection now, else he will pay the price years from now...”

Combeferre was inclined to agree with him. Marianne seemed the sort who would rebel against Enjolras when she was grown. She had at her disposal the face of an angel and the wit of a fox, and nursed an affinity for doting attention and pretty things. Combeferre could easily envision her in some fifteen years on the arm of some arrogant bourgeoise, all lace bonnets and expensive jewels, mingling effortlessly in the world Enjolras fought so vehemently against.

Privately, Combeferre thought it would serve him right.

“You have a fair point,” he said, “But do not let Enjolras hear you talk that way."

Courfeyrac snorted, “I care not a bit if he does,” he said, “He waits until her clothing is worn out and she resembles a street urchin before he buys her anything new. A small taste of vanity is not a mortal sin, the poor girl. If he will not give her his love then the least he can give is his wealth."

Combeferre reached forward, laying his hand gently on Courfeyrac's and rubbing circles over his knuckles with his thumb, “He will learn from his mistakes one day,” he said hopefully, “In the meantime though, we should sleep. You cannot sit up watching her forever...” he added with a smirk, gesturing to Emmeline. 

“I could,” Courfeyrac joked, “But I suppose you are right.” he gave a dreamy sigh, kissing Emmeline's forehead again, “Goodnight my lovely – have pleasant dreams.”

 

-

 

They left the room hand in hand, a comfortable silence settling over them that was broken only once they reached the door to their room.

“You work too late,” Courfeyrac despaired, pulling him close, “You are almost as bad as Enjolras!”

Combeferre let out a small 'tut', “Nobody is as bad as Enjolras,” he said, “But you are right, I work too much at times – but it is necessary to keep the clinic up and running. I must keep a close eye on the costs..."

“You ought to get an accountant for such matters,” Courfeyrac protested, kissing him sweetly on the lips, “Then we might steal more time to be a family,"

Combeferre smiled, pressing his forehead to his, “I shall see about it,” he promised; at that moment a gust of cold wind rushed up the hallway, blowing Courfeyrac's curls askew – the slam of the front door followed, rattling the whole house to it's foundations.

Courfeyrac grimaced.

“Grantaire is home, then,”

“Apparently so,” Combeferre said, “It is not yet ten...”

“Very early,” Courfeyrac said a little worriedly, “Come, let us go to bed swiftly,” he begged, “I do not want to hear them fighting...”

Combeferre nodded – if Grantaire had returned home before midnight it only followed that he was seeking an audience with Enjolras, and it also followed, from experience, that the end result would be unpleasant for all involved. 

“Let us go to bed,” Combeferre agreed, “I am sure they will be quick about it.”

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, some nasty words in this. But if you've read the plan for this fic, let me assure you
> 
> \- spoiler - 
> 
> They do reconcile. Don't worry!

Enjolras' eyes felt like they were burning, the low lighting in the study beginning to take it's toll. He was exhausted, though it was barely ten o'clock. Years ago he would have worked long into the small hours, but now it felt as though his age was beginning to make a persistent nuisance of itself.

He yawned, setting down his pen.

“That will be all for tonight, Camille,” he decided, “It is growing late, and we ought to retire to bed.”

Camille wrinkled his nose, closing the book he'd been reading.

“If you say so,” He mumbled. He paused for a moment, running his hand thoughtfully over the cover of the book. The look on his face was one with which Enjolras had become well acquainted of late. He had a question, and he was deciding how best to ask it.

"Camille?" he prompted, "Is something on your mind?"

The boy did not look up, “Yes," he said, "Father, may I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Enjolras said, rubbing his tired brow, “What is it?”

“A few nights ago I overheard you speaking with uncle Combeferre,” Camille began, still fiddling with the book as though nervous, “He brought up the June Rebellion – the one in 1832, that we have been studying...” he finally glanced up, meeting Enjolras' gaze with his own. His eyes were keen and sharp, peering deep into his soul.

“He spoke as though he had been there,” he said.

“Oh,”

Enjolras felt his blood run cold. He looked down at his desk, at the pages and letters strew out beneath his hands, and saw that his fingers were trembling over them. He had never told Camille the truth – though pleased by his interest in politics his past had seemed impossible to explain. In some strange manner Enjolras felt as though keeping it from him might protect him, though from what he did not even know. To speak of that June felt like resurrecting the dead. Sometimes it felt as though even whispering of it might bring ghosts to their door, and death along with them. 

At fourteen Camille imagined himself a man, but despite his stern brow and level head he remained a boy all the same, and the events of those few days were not a story for a boy.

But Camille already knew – Enjolras could see it in his eyes. His expression spoke for him; he knew, he had suspected, he had figured it out – and now he was giving Enjolras the opportunity to be honest with him.

He swallowed hard, giving a small nod.

“Yes,” he said at last, trying to steady his voice, “That is because he was.”

Camille let out a shaky sigh, as though he had been holding his breath.

“And you?” he asked, “Were you there too?”

“I was. As was your father, and your uncle Courfeyrac.”

"Father was there? He was a revolutionary?"

Enjolras felt the bile rise in his throat, "No," he said, "He slept through it."

"Slept through it?!" Camille said, horrified, "He did not fight alongside with you?"

"No. Instead he drank."

"Then I was sired by a coward."

Enjolras did not agree, but neither could he bring himself to defend Grantaire with all that had happened between them. He bit his tongue and remained silent.

“Why did you not tell me?” Camille asked. 

Enjolras shook his head, “It was not something I wished to reminisce about.” he said, “And you were too young. It is not a pleasant tale.”

“But we have been studying it,” Camille protested, “I already know everything that happened!”

“Not in detail. And it is easy to talk of it when I can remove myself from the narrative,” Enjolras admitted, “Books and articles cannot convey the horror of it all – the blood and the dirt, the death and the destruction. It is a grizzly affair to recount.”

Camille did not seem terribly impressed by this answer, but he did not comment.

"Is that what happened to uncle Courfeyrac's face?"

"Yes," Enjolras confirmed, "It is the work of grapeshot."

Camille shook his head slowly, processing his words. 

“How did you get involved?” he pressed, “What role did you play?”

Enjolras hesitated,  "I helped to organize meetings and inform the people,” he looked away, “Nobody else was stepping up to the task and so I took it upon myself. With your uncles, of course, and several other good men who are dead now, god rest their souls." 

“Step up to the---father,” Camille's eyes grew wide with awe, “Were you commanding the barricades? Were you a leader?”

“Yes,” He said, “Only the barricade on Rue de la Chanvrerie.”

Much as Enjolras was wont to deny it, he could not - 'Leader' was never a title he had given himself, but it had been placed upon his shoulders by his brothers, and so he could not shake it off.

“Only?” Camille said, outraged, " _Only?_ You fought against the National Guard!” 

Enjolras did not like the look on his face – it was bright with wonder, as though illuminated by some great revelation. It reminded him a little of Grantaire, and the way he used to look at him in the Musain long ago; that he had grown even more so into Grantaire's features surely did not help.

“I did. And many died as a result."

“Father...”

Camille fixed him with a look far beyond his years, his eyes plaintive, desperate for more. Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, to tell him that for all their lessons he could not truly understand, but suddenly he heard movement in the hallway, and stopped.

Grantaire was home – he knew from his steps, for they had about them a very recognizable quality these days, heavy and stumbling, with the sound of his cane following with a defined 'tap'.

“You ought to be abed now, Camille,” he decided; he saw his son's shoulders sag in disappointment.

“It is getting late.”

“But father---”

“You ought to be abed.” Enjolras repeated firmly, steering him towards the door with one hand, “Run along. I am tired and I have errands to run tomorrow.”

Camille looked as though every fibre of his being was fighting the urge to argue – something Enjolras could not deny was the result of his own blood.

“Go, Camille,” he said, more softly. Camille muttered something under his breath but did as he said, pausing in the doorway when he came face to face with Grantaire.

He did not look well – he had not shaved in some time, and had evidently gone out that afternoon without his cravat, or else misplaced it in whatever bistro or wineshop he had been wasting his night. Enjolras could smell the gin on him from across the room, so potent it made his eyes water.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“May we speak?” Grantaire said, his voice hoarse as though he had been smoking.

Enjolras felt his jaw twitch involuntarily, “Of what?” he demanded.

“Of private matters...” Grantaire said, casting a sidelong glance at Camille as though he had only just noticed him, “Camille...”

“Father,” Camille said stiffly, stepping awkwardly around him. He glanced back at Enjolras, his expression significant. It was easy to tell what the boy was thinking. 

“Camille,” Enjolras said again; he did not want him here for whatever was to follow. Their fights could be vicious, and he would spare Camille the experience if he could.

“Very well,” Camille said, shooting one last suspicious look in Grantaire's direction, “Goodnight,” he said, before disappearing down the hallway.

Grantaire huffed, watching him go, “He does not want to leave you alone with me,” he guessed, “Why? Does he think me a brute? That I might beat you?”

“I can see why he might think that.” Enjolras said coldly.

Grantaire froze, his eyes managing to focus for a moment, “Enjolras,” he said weakly, “How could you say such a thing? I have never...I would never...”

“He has a good memory,” Enjolras stated, “He remembers that day.”

“I did not----”

“But you almost did.” Enjolras paused, “And you were _sober_ then.”

Grantaire looked down, gripping his cane so tightly that his hand shook with the force, “If that is what you think of me there is no need for me to have come to you tonight,” he whispered, “It is evidently a hopeless cause.”

“What cause did you hope to promote?” Enjolras asked scathingly, “Another tirade about my failings as a father? I pray, you need not – Comebeferre has beaten you to it today.”

“Peace,” Grantaire said, “The cause I wished to promote was _peace,_ Enjolras. I came to ask if you would let me share your bed again.”

Enjolras laughed; he could not help it. The sound was bitter and sharp and tore at his throat on the way up.

“Share my bed?” He said, “You are a fool if you think we are anywhere near such things!”

“I do not mean in that manner,” Grantaire argued, “Only that I miss your company. Your presence beside me as I fall asleep, the sound of your breathing. I do not like to sleep alone. Please - I wish for us to try to make peace with each other.”

Enjolras turned away from him, gripping the edge of his desk; he could not face him, certain that if he did Grantaire would see the conflict raging inside of him, eating him whole.

“I am not ready for that Grantaire,” he said, voice cracking slightly, “Please leave me.”

“But why?” Grantaire pleaded, supporting himself on his cane as he ventured closer; his pains were always worsened this time of year, the cold seeming to creep into his bones and make him suffer more for it. Enjolras longed to comfort him – to rub his aching joints the way he had before they had grown so far apart – but such things had passed.

“Why will you not at least try?” Grantaire said.

“I will not reconcile with you until you apologise for the way you responded to my decision.” Enjolras said.

“Your decision?” Grantaire said scornfully, “You mean how you abandoned our daughter?”

“I did not abandon her. The child is in Combeferre and Courfeyrac's care---”

“Emmeline, Enjolras,” Grantaire snapped, “She has a name – I know so because I gave it to her, since you would not.”

“I did not want another child!” Enjolras said, whirling around to face him, “I did not want _any!_ Damn nature and damn _you_ for cursing me with _four!_ ”

Grantaire pulled back, disgusted. 

“You expect me to forgive you yet you speak of our children so cruelly?” he said, curling his lip, “I know that you did not wish to keep Emmeline. I know, Enjolras, and I might have even agreed it was for the best. But you did not include me in the decision at all - you made it as though I were little more than a passing thought! As though my only contribution to her life was her making. She is my child too!”

Enjolras winced; he was right. He knew he was right, and that was what hurt him so deeply.

“Leave me, please,” he said, turning back to his desk and sorting his papers with trembling hands, “I do not wish to talk any more on this. I am tired, and destined for bed.”

“I know why you did it, Enjolras,” Grantaire continued, “I know you still held rage in your heart for what nearly happened with Camille when you made the decision without me. I know – and I understand. Do you think I do not hate myself every day for what might have happened? I am not my father, Enjolras. You know that. But time has passed, and I am begging you..."

Enjolras swallowed the jagged lump in his throat, “Go,” he said, “I am done speaking with you tonight.”

“Enjolras...”

“Goodnight, Grantaire.”

He did not need to look to know that Grantaire was crushed; he could feel it, could imagine the devastation on his face so clearly. It took everything within him not to break.

It was true, of course - Enjolras had never let go of that fleeting moment in the study six years ago. It had festered like an ugly wound, and when Emmeline had come into the world it festered further still, until the infection had spread and killed their marriage.

Now they were at an impasse, both of them clinging to the other's mistakes, neither of them willing to yield. 

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” Grantaire said finally, his voice catching on his name, “I hope you sleep well, my love.”

The endearment was nearly Enjolras' undoing; he did not move until he heard Grantaire leave, listening to his steps disappear down the hallway. Finally, when certain he was gone, he fell to his knees in front of his desk and wept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just remembered I wanted to thank tumblr users annabrolena and luckyteenagedirtbag for giving me a little help on working out how I wanted the talk between Enjolras and Camille to go! Merci!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> François rambling at length about obscure facts is honestly all the evidence anyone ever needed that he's Grantaire's spawn.

It was obnoxiously early when Combeferre rose the next morning, awakened by the sound of Enjolras hammering incessantly on the bedroom door like a man possessed. He sighed, fumbling for his spectacles.

“One moment, Enjolras,” he called, rubbing his brow. 

“He has no patience,” Courfeyrac mumbled sleepily from where he lay beside him, cocooned in the bedsheets, “Make him go away, I beg. It is too early to be awake.”

Combeferre was inclined to agree with that assessment.

“It could be important,” he said diplomatically. 

“Sleep is also important.” Courfeyrac argued, and once again Combeferre could not fault his logic.

He smiled, running his fingers affectionately through Courfeyrac's curls and making him elicit a soft, sleepy sound that rather resembled a cat's purr.

“I have to see what he wants,” He said regrettably, “But if the world is not crumbling and the Champs-Élysées is not on fire then I will be coming back to bed.”

“Do you promise?”

“Of course.”

“Then I suppose I will allow you to go,” Courfeyrac joked, burying his face in the pillow as Enjolras began knocking again, “Go on, before he breaks down the door.”

Combeferre chuckled, alighting the bed. When he flung open the door he found Enjolras standing in the hallway, fully dressed and immaculately put together. His hair had been swept back with a ribbon and his cravat was tied so tight and high that it was a wonder it did not choke him. Such formal attire so early could only mean one thing.

“Renaud and Claudel have called a meeting?” he guessed.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “One of great significance, apparently.”

Combeferre scoffed, “Renaud has a flair for the dramatic,” he said, “Likely they just have new pamphlets to distribute or some other trivial affair.”

“Regardless, we have been urged to go,” Enjolras said, fishing his pocket watch from the breast of his waistcoat, “We are short on time. Go and dress yourself quickly. Camille and I are ready to leave.”

“Camille?” Combeferre said, blinking.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, lifting his chin, “I am bringing him along with us today.”

Combeferre stared at him, for a moment incapable of speech. It felt like he'd just been doused with icy water.

And then, as quickly as the shock had taken him, the anger came rushing in on it's heels.

“You are taking your child to a covert revolutionary meeting?!”

“Why not?” Enjolras said dismissively, “He is interested in politics. It will be educational for him.”

“Educational? Have you taken total leave of your wits at last?!”

“He is _my_ son, Combeferre, not yours,” Enjolras snapped, “I ask that you respect my decision on the matter. He knows we were involved in the June rebellion – he confronted me about it last night. He knows, and after sleeping on it it occurs to me now that there is no use sheltering him from such things.”

“He is fourteen years old,” Combeferre said, feeling his voice start to rise; he heard Courfeyrac stir in the bed behind him.

“And already more a revolutionary than I ever was at that age,” Enjolras said proudly.

Combeferre felt a cold laugh leave his body.

“That is not a good thing, Enjolras.”

Enjolras' expression faltered ever so slightly – a crack in smooth marble – and then he stepped back.

“We will be leaving for Cafe Laurent in five minutes,” he reported, “Join us or do not – it is up to you.”

With that he turned on his heel and left, leaving Combeferre standing in the doorway in his nightshirt, trembling with rage.

“Ignorant fool!” he spat, to no one in particular, “Camille is a _child!_ ”

“You cannot stop him,” Courfeyrac said softly, coming up behind him to rest his hand against his back, “I agree with you, but it is not your right.”

“It ought to be,” Combeferre said, whirling to face him, “He is filling that boy's head with dangerous thoughts. He will get him killed.”

“I do not think even Enjolras would let it go that far, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said, his eyes gentle and understanding, “Enjolras may at present be blinded by his ideals, but we must have more faith in him than that. He is still our dearest friend, after all.”

Combeferre felt all the tension leave his body at once. He sighed, looking down.

“I pray you are right,” he said.

“I am never wrong,” Courfeyrac teased, kissing his cheek, “Are you going with them?”

“No,” Combeferre said, “I would not give him the satisfaction. At any rate I have things that need my attention at the clinic. There is still a sweating sickness in the city. There are people, sickly and suffering, who require my assistance - Enjolras is so single-minded he loses sight of who we are fighting for.”

Courfeyrac nodded, making his way across the room to the dresser, “Very well,” he said, “I assume you will be taking François with you...?”

“Yes,” Combeferre decided, “If Enjolras is so set upon schooling one of his sons in the art of insurrection then I shall balance the scales schooling his other son in the art of healing - at least then there may be a little more order in the world.”

 

-

 

He found François where he thought he might, sitting in the bay window of the parlour with his legs crossed and his head in a book. More and more these days he resembled his own person in his features; not quite enough of Grantaire to be likened to him, yet not nearly enough of Enjolras to resemble him either. François was that most bizarre of things - such an equal blend of his parents that it somehow culminated in him looking nothing at all like either of them. He was pursed lips, wide eyes and the face of a young girl, mixed inexplicably with a strong jawline, heavy brow and long nose. Newly eleven he was still small for his age, and, Combeferre fancied, already the smartest person in the house.

“François,” he said after a few moments.

The boy looked up, startling slightly, “Uncle,” he said, smiling at the sight of him, “Do you need me for something?”

“Yes,” Combeferre said, “I will be visiting the clinic today and I could use the extra pair of hands.”

François beamed, immediately setting aside his book and springing to his feet, “Of course!” he said, “Let me get my coat. Oh, and I shall need to ask my father---”

“Your father has left for the day, along with your brother,” Combeferre told him, “I grant you permission on his behalf, since he is not here to do so. He has had no complaints with you coming with me before. You have been an immense help these last few weeks." 

François nodded; asking Grantaire in Enjolras' stead did not seem to cross his mind.

Combeferre could hardly blame him.

 

-

 

They walked to the clinic slowly together, talking about all kinds of strange things. François was a precocious child; shy and withdrawn, until set upon something he found a passion for. It was a most Enjolras trait, Combeferre thought, but put to far better use. 

“Did you know, Uncle, that one of the most poisonous mushrooms in the whole world - _Amanita virosa_ – tricks people who eat it?” He said.

Combeferre glanced at him curiously, “No. How so?”

“The symptoms of _Amanita virosa_ poisoning are stomach pains and nausea, but sometimes the symptoms will go away for hours or even days, and the victim will think they are recovering.” François told him, “It is almost as though nature is intentionally cruel in her work. Sometimes it is called 'The Destroying Angel' - as little as half a mushroom cap will kill a full grown man!”

Combeferre raised his eyebrows, “That is very interesting indeed,” he said, “And morbid, to boot. Where did you learn this?”

“That book on French flora and fungi you gave me last week,” François said, as though the answer ought to have been obvious. In truth, it should have.

“Ah, yes,” Combeferre nodded, amused, “I had forgotten about that. I did not expect you to get through it quite so quickly...”

“I found it too interesting to put down,” François confessed, “I sat up all night by candlelight and finished it.” he paused, adding quietly, “Do not tell my fathers that, though.”

Combeferre laughed, ruffling his hair, “I will not,” he vowed.

“Good. I can tell you more about mushrooms if you like? It might help if someone ever comes into the clinic with poison symptoms!”

Combeferre smiled to himself, unable to help it, “Tell me as much as you wish,” he said, “I am sure it will come in very useful.”

François puffed up his chest, evidently pleased, and launched immediately into a lengthy disquisition about the many fungi of Southern France and their varying degrees of edibility and toxicity. Seeing such enthusiasm in the boy's eyes made Combeferre glow with pride – perhaps more than it ought have, in truth. Over the last six years he had come, very privately, to see François far more a son than a nephew. He did not dare give these thoughts a voice, of course, for he was not the boy's father, and it was inappropriate to wish such things.

 

-

 

The clinic was full when they arrived, a body in every bed and laid out on every board. Despite the cold weather it was sweltering inside, the fires blazing in both hearths, and a heavy, sour smell permeated the air. The four nurses that Combeferre employed to run the clinic in his stead were rushing to tend to people, so lost in their work that at first they did not even notice he and François in the doorway.

“Monsieur!” Josephine cried when she saw him, hurrying over to him, “Thank the lord you are here; we are now full to capacity!” she said, fanning herself against the heat, “We cannot take in any more patients."

Combeferre glanced at the nearest cot to his left, where a man a little older than himself was shivering beneath the sheets, his face pale and his eyes glazed as though already halfway through the mortal veil. It had been this way for near a month now, the clinic run off it's feet with the rapid spread of the sickness. 

“How are they fairing today?"

"Not well. We lost two last night."

"What is being done for them today?” he demanded.

“We have lit both of the fires to help them sweat the fever out,” Josephine said, gesturing to the fireplace as though that were not already blatantly clear, “But there is little else we have been able to do. We have limited resources, Monsieur, and not enough hands - we have been sleeping in shifts!”

Combeferre's heart clenched with guilt.

“I am sorry,” he said gently, “I am here now, and will tend to them myself today; go home, see to your family and get some rest. I will see to it you are paid appropriately for your time.”

Josephine took his hands in hers, smiling tiredly, “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said, “And god bless you.”

 

-

 

He and François worked until their feet ached and it had grown dark outside, and then they had lit candles, and worked on until they had all but burned down. They stripped old sheets and burned dirty clothes, until all of the patients in the clinic were clean and as comfortable as they could make them. Combeferre feared it would still do very little; many of them were already as good as lost to the fever.

They continued working until François was near asleep on his feet, at which point Combeferre finally stopped to examine the time.

“It is past midnight,” he said, his own weariness finally starting to creep into his bones, “We had ought to return home. Will you be alright here, until I can come tomorrow?” he asked Léonie, the youngest of the four nurses.

She smiled weakly, nodding, “We will manage,” she assured him.

“I would stay,” Combeferre said honestly, “But I must see to it François gets home - he is too young to be working so late...”

“We will manage,” Léonie repeated softly, pointing to François, “Get the poor boy off to his bed before he falls asleep here. We do not have the room to put him up in the clinic overnight."

Combeferre glanced at François, folding clean sheets in an almost mechanical manner, eyelids drooping.

“Come along, François,” he said, “We'd best be home before your father has me sent to the guillotine for keeping you out so late.”

“I am not tired,” François protested, rather undermining his own words with an extended yawn.

“Of course not,” Combeferre chuckled, herding him towards the door, “Let us go.”

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning; this chapter will be devastating.

When Combeferre ventured down to breakfast the next morning he found Enjolras already seated at the table, dressed for the day and perusing the newspaper with a lofty sort of air about him.

“Good morning,” he said when Combeferre entered the room, without taking his eyes off what he was reading, “You returned home very late last night.”

“Yes, well, it is particularly busy at the clinic at present,” Combeferre said, taking a seat, “The sweating sickness is still rife in that part of the city. We are overrun.”

Enjolras hummed thoughtfully, “Have many have died?”

“A reasonable number.”

Enjolras finally set down the paper to look at him, expression softening, “I am sorry, my friend,” he said sympathetically, “I know that it must be difficult for you. You do your best by them.”

“I know,” Combeferre sighed, helping himself to some of the fruit on the table, “But I wish that I could do more for them. It is horrible to witness.” he paused, adding somewhat cautiously, “François is an exceptional help, though.”

“He is?”

“Yes,” Combeferre reported, “In a few years I should like to apprentice him – officially, if you are not opposed to the idea...”

Enjolras frowned, “Is that what he wishes?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I have no objection to it,” Enjolras said, glancing back at his paper, “You will make a fine doctor of him, I am sure.”

“I shall aim to. I doubt he will need much of my guidance, though; he has an exceptional natural talent for it. I dare say he will be teaching me in ten years time.”

Enjolras smiled wryly to himself at the comment, turning the page, “Well, that is a thought,” he said, “I confess, I do not know where such an aptitude for healing has sprung from. It is hardly in my nature - or Grantaire's.”

“Well it is in him regardless,” Combeferre stated, “And you ought to be proud of him.”

“I am proud of him,” Enjolras said, voice suddenly smaller, “Do not ever think I am not.”

Combeferre cleared his throat, reaching for the coffee, “How did the meeting go?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

“Well enough,” Enjolras said, “Another campaign banquet is to be held next week.”

Combeferre snorted, “I detest those,” he said.

“Well even so I shall be attending,” Enjolras informed him tersely, “I am more than happy to donate funds to the movement.”

“Of course you are,” Combeferre said, “Since your father died you have been throwing your family's wealth at it at every opportunity. A pity they have not credited you for your generosity in 'La Rèforme',” he added scathingly, gesturing to the paper.

Enjolras pursed his lips, “That is my own choice, as you well know. I would much prefer to remain anonymous.”

“Of course – forgive me, I do not mean offend,” Combeferre said, “But I do fear Renaud is taking you for a fool.”

Enjolras did not respond, pointedly ignoring him in favour of his reading. Combeferre sighed.

“How did Camille fair?”

“Excellently,” Enjolras said, “They were impressed with him; he held his own in political debates as well as any man twice his age,” he smirked, evidently pleased, “In fact I think he was perhaps more informed of current affairs than several of the men there!”

“Well I would think so with all of your lessons,” Combeferre said, tart despite his best efforts not to be. Enjolras did not appear to notice - or else made the decision not to.

He finished what he was eating and rose from the table, folding his copy of 'La Rèforme' into the breast of his coat, “It has been nice taking breakfast with you. I hope things improve at the clinic.”

“As do I,” Combeferre said, furrowing his brow, “You are leaving?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “Claudel and I have business that requires my full attention today. I may not be back until late.”

“You are spending an awful lot of time with them...” Combeferre pointed out.

More and more Enjolras dedicated his days and much of his evenings to the company of their group. Claudel, particularly, seemed to have invested much interest in him. Had Combeferre thought Enjolras a lesser man he might have even assumed him embroiled in some torrid love affair.

“We are making plans to put more demands on the monarchy,” Enjolras shrugged, “There is much to do and not enough hours in the day, it feels.” he leaned down, kissing Combeferre's cheek, “I will see you later, my friend.”

 

-

 

Combeferre finished eating by himself, watching the clock as he waited for François to join him. Camille took up a position in the parlour to read, and Courfeyrac left the house in a cheerful mood, toting Emmeline and Marianne along with him; 'We are going to take a stroll through Jardin De Luxembourg!' he had told him gleefully.

Two hours passed and still François did not come downstairs.

“Cecile,” he asked, when the maid entered the dining room to clear the table, “Is François not yet awake?”

“No, Monsieur,” She said, stacking plates on top of each other, “I called on him this morning but he did not seem well – I thought it best to let him sleep. You were out late last night.”

Combeferre scowled, troubled by her words, “It is almost eleven,” he said, more to himself than to Cecile, “We ought to have been at the clinic some time ago. Perhaps I should see to him...”

“If you think so,” Cecile said, breezing past him.

 

-

 

When he ventured upstairs to the room that François shared with Camille he found the boy burrowed beneath the sheets of his bed, still asleep.

“François?” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “François, it is getting late...”

The boy gave a quiet, unintelligible murmur, rolling onto his back to look at him; the moment he did Combeferre felt his heart stop. François' face was pale and glistening, sweat beading on his brow like morning dew on the grass.

“François,” he said, the boy's name coming out in a breathless whisper; he brought the back of his hand to his forehead, feeling the fire raging beneath his skin, and confirmed his worst possible fear.

He had the sweating sickness.

The guilt that crashed over him would have surely knocked him off his feet had he been standing; _he_ had done this. The boy had been helping him at his clinic for weeks, working alongside him to help those afflicted with this sickness, and yet it had never entered Combeferre's mind that François himself might succumb to it. François, who was small and weak for his age; François, who had come early into the world and always been the most sickly of Enjolras' children.

Somehow, Combeferre had not even considered it.

He had been a fool.

“Uncle,” François said, his brown eyes struggling to focus, “I do not feel well...”

“I know,” Combeferre soothed, brushing the boy's curls away from his face, “I know, François. You have the sweating sickness, but it will be alright,” he promised, “I will make you better.”

François shivered a little, closing his eyes, “You will have to make Camille move to another room,” he said bluntly, “So that he does not catch it too.”

“I will,” Combeferre said, feeling his heart ache with fondness. Even now, ravaged by fever, François was ever the doctor's apprentice, ever practical, ever concerned for the well-being of others. 

“Wait here,” he urged, “I will be back in a moment, I swear.”

“I cannot go anywhere,” François pointed out sleepily, turning his head on the pillow, “I will be right where you leave me.”

Combeferre nodded, kissing his forehead, “You will be alright,” he said, the words both a reassurance and a prayer.

He hurried from the room, rolling up his sleeves, “Cecile!” he yelled, “I need you to go to Cafe Laurent and retrieve Enjolras! You must tell him it is urgent!”

Cecile appeared at the top of the stairs, taken aback, “Monsieur?”

“Francois is sick. Very sick. He needs to come home at once.”

Cecile's eyes grew wide; she looked from François' bedroom door to Combeferre, mouth hanging open, “Will he live?” she asked.

“Go and find Enjolras,” Combeferre insisted, ignoring her question; of course François would live. He did not want to give any thought to the alternative.

Cecile nodded, gathering up her skirts to run down the stairs; when she had gone Combeferre turned his attention next to Grantaire, entering his room without so much as knocking. The room was dark, the shutters closed and the curtains of the bed drawn shut.

“Grantaire,” he said, throwing back the shutters to let in the light, “You must get up at once.”

Grantaire groaned from behind the curtains, the mattress creaking as he sat up.

“Why?” he demanded, “What has happened?”

“Francois is very ill.”

There was a pause and then the curtains opened, Grantaire rising from the bed as quickly as he could manage.

“François is sick?”

“Yes,”

Grantaire's eyes widened with horror; he scrambled for his cane, struggling ahead of Combeferre towards his son's room.

“It is sweating sickness,” Combeferre told him, catching up to him in the hallway, “There has been an outbreak in the south of the city---”

“And you have been taking my boy along to help you with it,” Grantaire said, shooting him a dark look. Combeferre felt his stomach turn over.

“Grantaire,” he started, “I am sorry---”

Grantaire shook his head, the momentary anger fading from his expression, “It is not your fault,” he said, somewhat grudgingly, “François would have insisted upon going regardless.”

Combeferre wanted to believe him.

 

-

 

François was still quaking in his bed when they entered the room, his breathing coming hard and ragged; Grantaire was at his side in an instant, hands shaking as he reached out to touch him.

“Francois?” he said, “Francois, I am here...”

“Papa...?” François croaked, groping blindly for Grantaire's hand, “I do not feel well.”

“I know,” Grantaire said softly, “I know. But you will be recovered soon, I know it.”

“What if I am not?”

“Do not talk that way,” Grantaire scolded, squeezing his hand, “You will. Your brother and I survived Scarlatina, do you remember? You will surely survive this. You are to be a doctor yourself, one day.”

François finally opened his eyes to look at him; Combeferre saw the doubt behind them, the knowledge, and felt his heart sink. François knew the more likely outcome – Combeferre could see it in his face. He had taught him too thoroughly for the boy not to understand his fate.

“I am sure you are right, father,” he said anyway, as though to lend Grantaire some strength, “I will be well again in no time at all.”

Grantaire let out a shaky sigh, kissing his hand, “I will stay here with you the whole time,” he vowed fiercely, “Until you are better.”

 

-

 

It was an hour later when Cecile returned, bundled into her coat and her cheeks red from the sharp winter wind.

“I could not find him,” she told Combeferre, hovering in the doorway to François room and watching as Grantaire dabbed at his brow with a cloth.

“I looked at Cafe Laurent, but he was not there – the owner says he and the others left two hours ago, bound for elsewhere.”

Combeferre cursed quietly to himself, glancing over at François, “We have to find him,” he said, “François is in a bad way...”

Cecile covered her mouth with one hand, “Oh,” she said, “Do you think...?”

“Yes,” Combeferre said, and to confirm it felt like the greatest failing of his life.

“The fever has worsened very quickly. I have not seen anyone deteriorate so quickly in a long while." 

Cecile looked down, hugging her arms, “The poor boy,” she said quietly, “He is such a sweet thing.”

Combeferre gave a barely perceivable nod, eyes still fixed upon François and Grantaire.

“Here,” he said, digging into his pocket and passing Cecile a handful of money, “Find every gamin in the street who would be amenable to running an errand, and send them to look for Enjolras. He is not easy to miss.”

 

-

 

Combeferre had been sitting in the hallway for hours now.

The candles had guttered out into darkness around him, but he had not moved to replace them, feeling physically incapable.

The house had fallen into a deafeningly silence - the sort of quiet that suffocated everything like a blanket. It was so quiet that Combeferre could hear the clock ticking in the parlour, echoing down the hallway and in his head.

The front door finally opened just after ten o'clock, Enjolras complaining of the cold and unwinding his scarf from around his neck.

“It is terrible out there tonight!” he said without glancing up, “Would you ask Cecile to put on coffee? I feel frozen inside and out.”

“Enjolras,”

“What?”

“Enjolras...”

He looked up then, stopping in the middle of removing his coat.

“Combeferre?” he said, studying his expression, “Is something wrong?”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre started, feeling his hands shaking uncontrollably at his sides, “Enjolras, I...” The words did not want to come up; they rose up in his throat but stopped halfway, lodging themselves there, unmoving, a lump of ice that he could not swallow.

Enjolras' eyes darkened with concern, “Combeferre,” he whispered, an almost wary edge to his voice, “Combeferre, what has happened?”

“I am so sorry, Enjolras,” Combeferre managed, feeling a tear roll unchecked down his cheek.

“François is dead.”

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly btw I urge y'all to look up Montmartre cemetery because it's beautiful and one of my favourite places in Paris without a doubt.

The funeral was a small affair; the family had been so isolated that there were very few to attend, and in truth Combeferre thought it was perhaps best that way.

It was a freezing cold morning, a pristine layer of snow settling on the tombs and biting at Combeferre's fingers even through his gloves.

Enjolras stood quietly beside him, seemingly lost, garbed from head to toe in black. It was not a colour that suited him, Combeferre thought. He had dreaded so much the return of red to his wardrobe that it had not even occurred to Combeferre that there might be a more ominous colour that could grace his attire.

Montmartre was silent - the same kind of chilling silence that had hung over the house in the days following François' death. It seemed to Combeferre as though Paris herself were in mourning, and in part he felt she should be, for Enjolras had dedicated so much of his heart to her that to grieve his child was the very least she could do in return.

A grand mausoleum had been constructed for François, a matter which Combeferre had arranged almost entirely by himself, for neither Enjolras or Grantaire were capable of the task. It was large enough that one day the rest of his family would be able to join him, but at present the idea was not something Combeferre wished to contemplate.

The mausoleum was neoclassical in design, built from fine stone with a sweeping arch across the front and a stained glass window in the back through which the winter sunlight now shone harshly. Combeferre had paid the expense himself – not that he planned on telling Enjolras this, of course.

He watched as the priest did his part – watched, but did not truly listen, for he could not stop revisiting that dreadful night in his mind. It would haunt him forever the way Enjolras' whole body had jolted at the news, the way he had brought one hand up to his chest as if Combeferre had driven a bayonet into it, as though his heart was physically breaking in two.

He did not know what sort of reaction he had expected from Enjolras – Rage? Tears? Some cruel part of Combeferre's psyche had even entertained the thought that he may respond with indifference.

The answer he had received, however, had been worse than anything he could have imagined; Enjolras had sunk to his knees where he stood in the hallway, expression blank, as though he could not seem to comprehend what he had been told.

Combeferre had gone to him, had gathered him into his arms to offer him comfort, but he had found him stiff and unresponsive; an empty shell, like a man bereft of a soul.

Combeferre did not think he would ever be able to banish that memory from his head.

As he thought of this he glanced at Enjolras once again, wishing he knew what to say to him. His eyes were glazed, staring at the mausoleum as it was closed but not seeming to see it. He was so still that snow had begun to catch in his hair, glistening as it melted. 

Combeferre reached out to take his hand, lacing their fingers together tightly; he felt Enjolras respond in kind, the only indication that he was not entirely lost to the world of the living.

The priest finished what he was saying, urging everybody to join him in prayer, and for perhaps the first time in his adult life Combeferre found himself doing so. If there was even the smallest chance of an afterlife Combeferre would do all that was within his power to see to it that François reached it safely.

 

-

 

When the service was done with and people began to leave, Combeferre looked to his left to see Marius and Cosette approaching him, their expressions heavy with sorrow. 

“Combeferre,” Marius said, placing one hand on his shoulder, “How are you all fairing?”

“As well as can be imagined,” Combeferre said, “Enjolras is struggling with it, as can be expected...”

“It is a terrible tragedy,” Cosette said, “François was so young...”

Combeferre nodded, but did not respond; speaking of François caused a horrible pang in his chest.

“Was Grantaire not able to attend?” Marius asked suddenly, looking around for him, “I would have thought he might be here, seeing as he is so close to Enjolras and his family...”

“Grantaire is indisposed at present,” Combeferre told him; it was not a lie.

Grantaire's reaction had been in some ways worse than Enjolras'; where Enjolras had fallen unsettlingly quiet Grantaire had responded very much the opposite. Combeferre had never heard a more heart-wrenching sound in all his life than the one that had left Grantaire when François had given his last trembling breath. Combeferre had witnessed the same scene a dozen times before in his clinic, but this had been different. This had been François, a child he knew, a child that he had loved almost as fiercely as had he been his own - and it had been Grantaire grieving for him, pouring his heart and soul out at his son's bedside, sobbing so violently that his whole body had shaken with the force.

Yes, Combeferre thought - indisposed was certainly not a lie.

Following that night Grantaire had done little more than drink and sleep, barely even eating, and, that very morning, he had staunchly refused to come to the funeral.

'I cannot claim him as my own,' he'd croaked, voice hoarse from crying, 'I must continue the charade that he is only Enjolras' child, and I cannot abide it. I will not go to my child's funeral and pretend to be anything but his father. I will go to Montmartre to see him in my own time, alone.'

Enjolras had not even reacted to his decision – if he felt strongly about it at all, he had not let it show.

“I am so sorry for his loss,” Cosette said, “I know that he loved Enjolras' children as though they were his own...”

Once again she spoke with an air of knowing about her, and not for the first time Combeferre found himself wondering just how much of the situation she had come to guess. He clasped her hands in his, smiling sadly.

“I will pass along your condolences,” he assured her, “And thank you both for the flowers – it was good of you to send them.”

“It is the least we could do,” Cosette said emphatically.

“Yes,” Marius agreed, “Enjolras and I were bound as brothers that June – I wish for him to know I share in his grief.”

“I am sure he appreciates that,” Combeferre said, though in his heart he knew that Enjolras was not capable of appreciating anything at present.

“It is so cruel the way life and death works,” Marius went on, eyes locked on Enjolras as Courfeyrac attempted to gently guide him back through the cemetery.

“Enjolras gave up so much to fight for liberty, and the world has been unnecessarily unforgiving to him ever since. He lost so many friends that day, his wife last year, and now his son, too. It is utterly unfair.”

“It is,” Combeferre agreed, following his gaze; Enjolras did not even seem present, clinging to Courfeyrac's arm as they walked as though he might collapse if he let go. Camille trailed a few feet behind them, staring down as he walked. It was Camille's first encounter with mortality, Combeferre realised, and despite the grief and the anguish that gripped his heart, he privately hoped it would be enough to steer the boy away from thoughts of barricades.

Surely to see his brother in the cold grips of death would put him off any thoughts of martyrdom for good.

“Do you think he will be alright?” Cosette asked, bringing him lurching out of his thoughts. He turned to look at her.

“Pardon?”

“Camille,” she said, eyes filled with pity, “It must be hard for him. He is only a boy, after all...”

“He is strong,” Combeferre said, “He is very much like Enjolras.”

“That means very little when Enjolras does not seem to be managing himself.” Cosette reminded him sadly. 

He wished she was wrong.

“I will look out for him,” he promised, “As if he were my own blood." 

And oh, he meant those words - meant them more strongly than anyone could know. It was his fault that François was dead. He had as good as killed him himself. He would not fail another of Enjolras' children – he would die before he saw that.

“I know you will,” Cosette said, kissing his cheek tenderly, “They are lucky to have you.”

Combeferre was not so sure.

 

-

 

There was no wake following the service.

Enjolras did not appear anywhere near cogent enough to entertain company of any sort, and so instead they had simply returned home promptly, Enjolras immediately disappearing to his study to be alone. Combeferre had half a mind to go after him, to try to speak some comfort to him, but as he went to follow him Courfeyrac caught him by his sleeve, holding him back.

“Do not,” he urged, laying his hand gently against his arm, “He may need to be by himself. You know that he is proud.”

Combeferre sighed, hanging his head, “I want to console him,” he said, “It is my fault, after all.”

“Do not say such things,” Courfeyrac chastised, gripping him tightly.

“Why? It is the truth,” Combeferre said, “I ought not have taken François with me to the clinic. He was too young, too at risk. It was my responsibility to keep him from harm and yet I put him directly in the path of danger.”

“You ought not have taken him to the clinic,” Courfeyrac agreed, perhaps more bluntly than Combeferre was ready to hear, “It was a mistake. But to blame yourself and hold onto such feelings helps no one, Combeferre.”

“But--”

“You loved François – you would not have purposely allowed him to come to harm. It was an error of judgement, and it cost dearly, but you cannot undo it. You must let go of your guilt.”

Combeferre could not argue. He was right that the guilt would not restore François to life, but he did not think it would be so easy to forgive himself. He doubted, in truth, that he ever would.

“I will try,” he said at last, “As best I can at any rate..."

“Good,” Courfeyrac said, “Because Enjolras and Grantaire need us to be stable for them so that they may not be. They will need to hurt for a time, and we must be here for them and for Camille and Marianne in the meantime.”

Combeferre brushed his fingers against Courfeyrac's, relishing in how warm they felt, how soft, how _alive_.

He so rarely counted his blessings for all the reprieves life had given him; he had survived the barricades, Courfeyrac with him, and then he had had Enjolras returned to him - some merciful god taking pity upon him - who in turn had granted him the joy of fatherhood through Emmeline.

He had been terribly fortunate.

“You are always wiser than you give yourself credit for,” he told Courfeyrac, still staring at their hands, “I do not know what I would do without you. It is a pitiful thing it took so long for me to learn that I loved you.”

Courfeyrac smiled sadly, lifting Combeferre's hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles, “We have made good use of the time we've had,” he said, “And we will have much more. Do not hold yourself accountable for things you cannot change, Combeferre. Enjolras does not blame you – so do not blame yourself.”

Combeferre nodded, glancing down the hallway towards Enjolras' study, still wrestling with the urge to go to him. But Courfeyrac was right, as was often the case – Enjolras needed to be alone.

“I will go and see to Emmeline,” he decided, “I should like to hold her a little tighter today.”

 


	29. Chapter 29

Enjolras moved without thought, without purpose.

He felt as thought he was walking along a cliff, careening towards the edge with no way of stopping himself. A dark, angry sea waited below to swallow him up, and truthfully, Enjolras did not think he would try to fight the tide if it did.

His son was dead.

That precious babe he had carried, that he had held in his arms, that he had watched grow into a boy – he was gone. He was gone and Enjolras had not been there to hold him, to press his lips to his brow and remind him that he loved him.

No – he had been at Cafe Voltaire with Renaud and Claudel, making arrangements for another reform banquet, unknowingly squandering the last precious moments of François' life.

And now he was overcome with hatred for himself.

It had been building inside of him with all the force of a hurricane for longer than he dared admit - a great, swirling storm that it felt his bones could barely contain. And finally, alone in his study, he unleashed it all – a destructive force that if given physical form he was certain would have felled all of Paris.

He sank to the floor, sobs racking his body so furiously that he could scarcely get his breath. The hurt was indescribable – a feeling so visceral he thought for a moment it might kill him. It felt as though it ought to have been fatal.

As he sat there weeping he heard the door of the study click open; he had been sure he had meant to lock it, but it did not surprise him to learn that he had not. He moved mechanically now, numbly and without consciousness. He could not rely upon himself to do anything. 

“Pleave leave me, Combeferre,” He said, resting his head against the wall, “I wish to be alone.”

“It is not Combeferre,”

At the familiar roughness of Grantaire's voice he raised his eyes from the floor, taking in the sight of him as though it were his first time seeing him. He looked worse than he could ever recall having seen him before, his eyes bloodshot and his dark curls drab and greasy. He had evidently neither slept nor shaved since François' passing.

“Grantaire,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “Why are you here?”

He must have hated him, he thought – how could he not? All of their misery, all of their grief was the culmination of Enjolras' decisions, Enjolras' desire to be back in Paris, Enjolras' stubbornness and pride. Enjolras would not have blamed him if he had come here to revile him. 

Instead he sat down next to him on the floor, groaning with the effort and setting his cane down at his side. He sat there in silence at first, gaze fixed on a point only he seemed able to see.

“I came to see how you were,” he said eventually, his voice hoarse.

Enjolras almost wanted to laugh.

“I am not well,” he said, wiping angrily at his eyes, “But I am coping.” he lied.

Grantaire looked down, “You are not,” he said, “Not any more than I am. You need not lie to me, Enjolras. I will not wound your pride.”

Enjolras did not respond; he could not, even if he wanted to. His voice felt as though it was stuck in his throat.

“How was the funeral?” Grantaire asked after a long while.

“It was beautifully done,” Enjolras said weakly, “Marius and Cosette sent a glorious flower arrangement. They must have cost double the salary of some families.”

It was perplexing how easily the words came to him; to talk of the funeral was not painful at all. He was able to separate it from François in some macabre way. To talk of flowers and fine stone mausoleums and the weather in Montmartre was easy, for when he did he did not have to think about his child, cold in the ground, skin already greying with decay.

“Ah,” Grantaire said, voice breaking a little, “That is good, at least. That was kind of them. They are good people.”

“Yes. They send their condolences.”

“I am sure they do.” Grantaire said; Enjolras saw the way his lips trembled, the way he fought to hold himself together, and it broke him.

He put his head in his hands, bursting abruptly into tears that he had thought he had no more to spend.

“I am sorry,” he blurted almost unconsciously, “Grantaire I am so sorry for everything. For Emmeline, for all the time that I have spent away from our family. For the neglect and the misery I know I have caused. I feel as though I am being punished, and I know in my heart that I am deserving of this pain. But you are not. François was not. It is unjust that you should suffer for my errors.”

Grantaire was quiet for a long time, and then, following a moment of thought, he lay his hand lightly upon his.

It was so unexpected that Enjolras' initial impulse was to pull away; it had been so long since they had last touched that the sensation felt foreign to him.

He turned his hand over slowly, letting their fingers lock together, and all at once the memory of it came surging back to him, as though his skin remembered the feel of him and screamed for more, for the familiarity and intimacy of something as simple as holding hands.

“I forgive you,” Grantaire said, turning to look him in the eye, “I forgive you, Enjolras - if you can forgive me also, for not understanding, for what happened with Camille.” he closed his eyes, “I have been a poor excuse for a father myself – since Emmeline was born I let myself grow to be a wretch again. It is not fair; not on our children, not on you. I did not help the matter. It is our children's forgiveness we ought to beg, I know, but perhaps if we begin by forgiving each other we may work to make things right by them...”

“You were right to try and foster peace,” Enjolras said, gripping his hand tightly, some small part of him afraid Grantaire might let go. Now that he had that contact again he could not bear the thought of losing it, not now, not now...

“We have both been wrong,” he said, “There was a time we would have fought about this, would have placed blame, would have yelled and screamed...”

“Perhaps we are getting too old for such things,” Grantaire remarked, “Or we have grown a little wiser, but I doubt it.”

Enjolras gave a tearful smile, “I doubt it too,” he said, “And I forgive you.”

“Truly?”

“Truly,” Enjolras confirmed, “I always will, in the end.”

In truth it required no thought at all - not after everything that had passed. 

It was remarkable the speed with which Enjolras found he was able to let go of all of his anger, all of his bitterness. He had harboured the feelings for so long that it seemed incredible to him now to find they fell away so easily. It had all become utterly inconsequential – holding onto it was futile.

It did not matter any more.

They had lost their child, and just like that the world had finally shifted back into perspective.

“Do you think we can find our way back to how we were?” Grantaire said.

“I do not know,” Enjolras admitted, “And in truth I cannot even say that that would be wise,” he sighed nervously, “But perhaps we can start again.”

Grantaire squeezed his hand once.

“I would like that.”

 

-

 

That night they shared a bed, finding comfort in each other's embrace as they reminisced about François.

It hurt to talk of him when he had been a babe, when he had first smiled, first laughed, first began to toddle around the house and get into mischief.

It hurt, it ached, but it was necessary.

To speak the loss aloud, to break the gravelike silence that shrouded the house – it felt like suturing a gaping wound so it might begin to heal. And to no longer feel alone in the grief...that was the best part. Enjolras had forgotten the simple pleasure of being held, of being enveloped in Grantaire's arms, surrounded by his warmth.

He had missed it more than he had imagined.

“I love you,” he whispered, as the exhaustion of grief finally caught up to him; his eyelids were growing heavy, and the candle on the nightstand was flickering ominously in the final throes of death.

“I love you too,” Grantaire said, pressing a kiss into his hair, “I have missed you so, Enjolras...”

In spite of everything, Enjolras managed the faintest of smiles.

“I have missed you too.”

 

-

 

He woke an hour later to a chill in the room, a draft creeping in from the open bedroom door. For a moment he was disoriented, for he had never shared this room with Grantaire before, and a part of his half-conscious brain still imagined him to be in his own bed, cold and alone.

“Papa?”

He blinked through the darkness, finally making out the small figure standing in the doorway, clutching a doll to her chest.

“Marianne,” he said, sitting up. She looked like a little ghost with her long blonde curls and white nightgown, stood half in the room and half out, draped in shadow.

Enjolras rubbed his eyes, reaching blindly out to his side to shake Grantaire awake.

He sat up in bed, following Enjolras' gaze to the door.

“Marianne?” he said, “What is wrong, ma chèrie?”

“I cannot sleep,” Marianne said, eyeing Enjolras curiously; it occurred to him then that Marianne would not recall a time when he and Grantaire had been sharing a bed. For as long as she had been able to form lasting memories he and Grantaire had been at war with each other; the realisation shattered the remains of his already broken heart.

“Oh,” Grantaire said, lifting up the corner of the bedsheets, “It is alright, my love – you may sleep with us if you like...”

Marianne nodded, hurrying over to scramble into the bed between them. Enjolras watched as she settled herself against Grantaire's chest, envying how easily such displays of affection came to him. It pained him to see the warmth between them, knowing that he had done nothing to deserve it for himself.

“I miss François,” she said, voice small and muffled against Grantaire's chest.

“I know, sweet one,” Grantaire soothed, stroking her hair, “I know. So do I. Try to sleep now...”

She closed her eyes, the creases in her brow quickly smoothing out as she succumbed to sleep. Enjolras studied her for a time, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way she twitched a little in her dreams. A part of him ached to reach out and touch her, to gather her into his arms and let her take comfort with him the way a father ought to. But he couldn't – it felt as though there were a great chasm the length of the Seine between them that Enjolras did not know how to cross. He had caused this distance himself, he knew, and so he did not feel he had any right to curse it.

Grantaire glanced up, meeting his gaze; a significant look passed between them.

“It is not too late, you know,” he said quietly.

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably, staring at Marianne, her soft golden curls so like his own, her tiny hands gripping the front of Grantaire's nightshirt as though to anchor her to him.

“I do not know where to begin,” He confessed, “I want to mend what I have broken, but I do not know how.”

“It is easy,” Grantaire said, “She already loves you, Enjolras, by way of a child's nature. You need only show her that you love her too.”

“She looks too much like me,” Enjolras admitted, burning with shame; it was the first time he had spoken the words aloud to Grantaire, and he found that they tasted bitter in his mouth.

“I look at her and I see the things about myself that I do not like, that I wish I could change. The same lips, the same soft features,” he said, “It is not her fault, I know, but it is difficult nonetheless.”

“But she is not you, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, “And she needs both of us, now more so than ever before. Just try, I beg – that is all you can do.”

Enjolras turned his words over in his head, watching Marianne as she dreamed. She was an innocent in all of this, wholly without blame. It was not her fault she looked so like him, and it was not her fault that Enjolras had never wished for children.

Trying was the very least he could do.

Cautiously, not at all certain of how to proceed, he reached out to brush some of her hair away from her face as she slept; she started slightly at his touch, eyes briefly flickering open to look at him.

He fought against the instinct to draw back, inhaling sharply when Marianne rolled over to face him and shuffled closer.

For a moment Enjolras was stiff, his nerves transforming him to stone, but then wrapped his arms around her and pressed a tentative kiss tenderly against her forehead. She smelled of comfort; the same scent all of his babies had had, the one they seemed to have inherited from Grantaire.

It was the same as Camille, the same as _François._

His closed his eyes, feeling tears fighting to the surface.

He had not held François nearly as often as he ought have. He had not, and now he would never be able to change that. Marianne was still young, he reminded himself; there was still time to do right by her. 

He would not make the same mistake ever again.

 


	30. Chapter 30

Christmas passed dismally without François.

They scarcely acknowledged the festivities, leaving the black mourning wreath upon the door to discourage any carolers who might have thought to call upon them. 

They attended midnight mass that year, something that had never happened before. It was the first time Enjolras had gone to church since leaving his parents' home, save of course for his wedding day. He had almost forgotten the prayers he was meant to say, the hymns he was meant to sing - but when the organ began to play he found the words rolled off his tongue with ease. He stood in Notre-Dame as the bells chimed midnight, Grantaire at his side, and he felt peace. 

Enjolras had never been a godly man; he thought religion something man-made, designed to shackle humanity, and even now he did not put much faith in it. His opinion was born less of disbelief than it was of disdain; in his mind any god that would condemn his love for Grantaire as anything but holy was not worth his time, just the same any god that allowed such suffering and poverty in the world.

But he went, and went gladly, and prayed for his son.

They held a modest echo of a réveillon following church, and though Courfeyrac had seen to it that the table was laden with all manner of culinary delights – among them goose stuffed with roast chestnuts, oysters and foie gras - Enjolras found he hadn't the stomach for any of it, instead choosing to forgo the feast in favour of watching the children open their gifts by the fire.

It had been the first year that Enjolras had allowed himself to be frivolous with his gifts, spending excessively in the hopes he might brighten the season for the children. Marianne found herself inundated with an entire new wardrobe; several gowns and matching bonnets, a pair of brightly coloured satin slippers and a cashmere cloak – Enjolras had spared no expense.

It was not enough to undo years of neglect, he knew, but it brought a little light back into the girl's eyes, and surely there could be no harm in that. 

Courfeyrac watched with raised eyebrows, sipping a glass of port as Marianne gleefully modelled bonnet after bonnet.

“You went a little overboard, don't you think?” he teased, though he looked almost as pleased as she did.

“I feel I owe it to her,” Enjolras stated quietly, “She has spent too many Christmases looking upon Emmeline with envy.”

Courfeyrac smiled, “I am proud of you, my friend,” he said, toasting him with his glass. 

“Papa, help me with my hat!” Marianne demanded, holding a bonnet - her apparent favourite - in place on her head with both hands.

“Are you certain that you wish to wear one inside the house, my sweet?” Enjolras asked, confused, “It is outerwear...”

Marianne shot him an impetuous glare, “Papa!”

“Of course, yes, forgive me---” Enjolras said quickly, moving to help tie the ribbon into a bow, “There you are, darling...”

“Thank you,” She said, all sweetness once again.

“You are welcome,” Enjolras said as she skipped away to show Grantaire her bonnet.

Enjolras could not help but laugh, though the sound felt unfamiliar as it left his mouth; it was the first time he had laughed since François had died.

“She knows what she wants,” Courfeyrac commented, grinning from ear-to-ear; Enjolras did not know if he were as amused as he or merely pleased to see him smiling again.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, watching her fondly, “She certainly does.”

 

-

 

December slipped into January, January into February, a light frost clinging stubbornly to Paris the whole time.

As the months had passed Enjolras had taken to walking the streets of Paris early each morning, breathing in the crisp air, savouring the way it cut into his lungs.

Since François' passing he had found himself drawn more and more to Camille and Marianne's company. There seemed to have sprung forth within him a strange pull, innate and ineluctable, that he realised with startling gravity must have been that most peculiar thing he had thought himself bereft of; parental instinct.

It was not maternal in sort, no, certainly not – the thought was laughable – but he imagined it the product of that same nature, stirring from some part of him that had remained dormant the way a spring flower waits beneath the snowfall.

Contrary to belief had always loved his children, but it seemed to him that François' death had fanned a flame into an inferno. The natural desire to protect them had grown tenfold, until it felt to Enjolras as though it filled all the space in his chest, leaving no room to concern himself with anything else.

Not even revolution.

Enjolras had found a glorious peace in the few precious hours where Paris was silent, when the streets were filled with fog and his breath looked like smoke.

Walking gave him time to think, time to appreciate the world around him. He was doing that a lot, of late.

This morning, though, Paris was not so quiet at all – he could hear a commotion in some of the streets, from Rue Saint Antoine and Place De La Bastille. Here and there young men ran past him, ducking into twisting alleyways and shouting across to each other. Enjolras paid them no heed.

 

-

He slowed his pace as he passed a small boutique, surprised to find it open despite the upheaval in the streets. He would have continued on with little more than a glance had a man who looked to have no more years than twenty to his name not slowed as he saw him.

“Citizen!” he called, trying to flag him down, “Monsieur! Are you coming to fight the government?”

Enjolras pretended not to hear him, ducking quickly into the boutique; he could not even entertain such thoughts at the moment.

It had been a bad decision to take refuge in the shop he realised quite immediately; to be surrounded by bonnets and perelines, petticoats and satin gowns- it made his insides twist with discomfort. He had a vivid memory of his mother dragging him by the wrist into just such a shop when he had been fourteen, insisting that the dressmaker 'do something' about his androgynous features.

 _'In the wrong attire she can pass for a boy!'_ she had said, outraged, _'She is poorly developed for her age, I should like to see her put into stays and some new fashions!'_

The memory alone was enough to make Enjolras start to step back; better to face the mob outside than the memories inside, he thought. 

“Good morning, Monsieur,”

He looked up to see the shopkeeper - a woman of an age with himself - staring expectantly at him as she polished the counter-top.

“Good morning, Madame,” he said, nodding politely.

“Are you looking for something for you wife?” she asked.

“No,” Enjolras said, “Forgive me, Madame, I am only---” he stopped short, noticing a glass cabinet to his right, filled with jewellery. What had caught his eye was a small gold locket, strung on an exquisite lace ribbon. It was not ostentatious, not by any means, but it did not fail in it's simplicity to be charming. His mind went instantly to Marianne, something that he was sure six months ago would not have happened.

“That,” he said instantly, pointing to it, “I should like to purchase it for my daughter.”

The woman blinked once, and then nodded.

“Very well,” she said, making her way over to open the cabinet, “It is pretty, is it not?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said awkwardly, “Most beautiful.”

“I made the lace myself, you know?”

“It is splendid work,” Enjolras complimented.

“Thank you, Monsieur. How old is your daughter?”

“She has just turned seven." 

“A lovely age.” She said pleasantly, carrying the locket around to the counter.

“I am surprised you are still open,” Enjolras commented as he watched her, “There is unrest in the streets this morning...”

“It does not frighten me, Monsieur,” she said dismissively, focused on her task, “I have seen much worse. I lost my lover in the uprising of 1832 – a few riots in the streets trouble me none.”

At her words Enjolras felt a horrible lump form in his stomach, “In 1832, you say?”

“Yes,” She said, pausing for a brief moment, “He went off to fight and did not come back. The dog left me with a babe in my belly and no way of supporting us – not that he knew that, of course...” though she spoke harshly her eyes filled with sadness, and Enjolras could almost see the haze of happy memories dancing behind them.

“Oh,” he said, “I am sorry, Madame, for your loss.”

“It's no matter to me. It was a long time ago,” she shrugged, “My boy is near fifteen; he works now, and we get by.”

Enjolras nodded; as she finished wrapping the necklace he found himself fancying he had seen her once before on Bahorel's arm. She had the same red curls and laughter lines around her eyes.

The thought made him feel sick. 

“Here,” he said, digging deep into his pockets as he went to pay, “Take this extra, I beg,”

“Why?” She demanded, recoiling warily, “Just because I have a child out of wedlock, Monsieur, does not mean---”

“Oh, no,” Enjolras said quickly, face turning scarlet, “You misunderstand me, certainly! I meant nothing untoward - it is merely a tip, for your fine lacework,”

“Truly?”

“Yes, yes,” Enjolras said, still terribly flustered, “Use it so your son may not work so much. He is young – he ought to be getting an education instead."

“Thank you, Monsieur,” the woman said, pocketing the money without further complaint, “I hope your daughter likes the necklace.”

“I am sure she will.”

 

-

 

The conversation with the shopkeeper dogged him terribly as he stepped outside, and he made a mental note not to venture this way again. 

As he slipped the box with the necklace inside into his coat pocket he heard a familiar voice from the other end of the street.

“Enjolras!”

He spun around at the sound of his name, seeing Claudel loping out of the fog towards him, waving one arm. He had a musket in his other hand, and a sabre tucked into his belt. It was a jarring sight, so reminiscent of 1832 that Enjolras felt his heart all but stop for a moment.

“Claudel,” he said, stunned, “What is going on?”

“The people are rising,” Claudel told him excitedly, “The government has banned political banquets, and everyone is in an uproar about it! There are calls for the king to abdicate!”

“Truly?”

“Yes! People are building barricades in the streets!”

Enjolras felt his blood run cold.

“Barricades?”

“Yes! Come quickly, you are needed there!”

“I...” Enjolras hesitated, finding that his feet had become rooted to the spot, “But I must retrieve my gun from my lodgings,” he said, “I have things to do there---”

“There is no time for that!” Claudel protested, glancing behind Enjolras at the shop and scowling, “Why on earth were you at a boutique? I had thought your wife was dead?”

“She is.”

“Have you a mistress?”

Enjolras scoffed at the suggestion; “I was purchasing a gift for my daughter.”

“You have a daughter?”

Enjolras felt guilt stir in his belly, “Yes,” he said, “Have I not told you that before? Her name is Marianne.”

“Not to my recollection,” Claudel said, waving it away, “It does not matter, anyway. We need you on the barricade. Here,” he said, thrusting his musket into Enjolras' hand, “I have a pistol, I will manage well enough without this. Where have you been? We have not seen you in months!”

Enjolras gripped the gun tightly, feeling the weight of it in his hands, the cold brass against his skin.

“I have been in mourning,” he said numbly, certain that his all black attire ought to have made the answer clear.

“Ah,” A look of guilt flashed across Claudel's features at his words, “Of course,” he said, “Your son. François, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me, I confess it had slipped my mind. I am sorry we did not attend the funeral – we were busy with the banquet.”

“It is alright,” Enjolras said, “I did not expect you to be there.”

Claudel's eyes grew sad, “We ought have been, though,” he said sincerely, placing a firm hand on his shoulder, “You are our friend, Enjolras, and we had a duty to be there for you. Forgive me, please.”

“You are forgiven.”

“Thank you. Now, are you to come with me or not?”

Enjolras did not know how to say no – it had never occurred to him that he might be so suddenly involved in revolutionary matters again. Politics had not even crossed his mind since François had died.

“I...Claudel----”

“Please,” Claudel begged, “We need someone with experience on the barricade. You were a leader in 1832 – the chief! Your presence would lend great morale to the men.”

Enjolras' heart ached; he looked at Claudel, Romantic and idealistic and so full of hope. He was only a few years Enjolras' junior, but he looked younger – with his auburn ringlets and wide eyes he reminded him of Jean Prouvaire.

“Very well,” he said, “I will come with you.”

 

-

 

It had already devolved into chaos when they arrived at the barricade on Rue Saint Antoine; it was one of the largest blockades in the city, spanning the width of the main street and reaching near ten foot high.

Renaud was already there, crouched at the top of the barricade and shouting the occasional orders to the men.

“Renaud!” Claudel cried, “Look who I found!”

“Enjolras!” Renaud shouted with delight, climbing down to meet them and embracing them both tightly.

“You are here!”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “Claudel found me on Rue De Turenne and brought me to you.”

“Good,” Renaud said, “Your experience will be invaluable to us!”

Enjolras nodded, glancing down at the musket in his hands. He had not held one in years – it was heavier than he remembered, or else he was weaker. He did not know.

“I was sorry to learn of your son's death,” Renaud added, “You have your other son, at least.”

Enjolras did not like the way he spoke the words, but he did not say it aloud.

“Yes,” he said instead, “Thank you for your condolences.”

Renaud gave a short nod, abruptly turning his attention back to the barricade as a young man called to him.

“They're taking position!”

Renaud disappeared to the top of the barricade, Claudel at his heel, and Enjolras was left standing by himself, dumbstruck, the gun in his hands and his heart feeling as though it were half-way up his throat.

“TAKE AIM!” He heard Renaud shout.

The order set off in him an almost innate response; he scrambled to find the nearest vantage point, resting the nose of the gun along the top of the barricade as he lined up his shot. He could see the National Guard some forty yards ahead of them, a line of them kneeling with their weapons pointed in their direction and another line stood behind them.

There was a cry from their ranks, a flash, a pop, and then a hail of bullets descended upon the barricade.

He heard Claudel from somewhere ahead give the command to fire, and in an instant the insurgents returned the volley; the crack of gunfire rang in Enjolras' ears, louder than he remembered. Amid the clouds of smoke and the smell of black powder he could see very little, interpret nothing at all, but he raised his musket and squinted through the haze to take aim again.

He saw the blue and red of the enemy's uniform, saw a body lined up perfectly in front of him, felt his finger curl around the trigger, and----

And did nothing.

It was a boy in front of him, not a man – a boy no more than five years Camille's senior.

Combeferre's words from 1832 rang in his head, an echo of something he had long tried to forget, a life spent meaninglessly; _he could be your brother!_

Now the words were different; _he could be your son!_

He felt the gun slip from his hands, powerless to stop it. It was an almost unconscious movement. He heard it land amid the bones of the barricade with a loud clatter, and did not move to retrieve it. 

He could not shoot – he _would not._

He was not the same man he had been then. He could not kill, refused to have a hand in it - and in his own death, too; he could not stay here.

He ought never have let Claudel lead him there.

He had a responsibility to his family to return home alive.

Another round was fired by the National Guard, and then, seeing that they were well-matched, they retreated. As soon as the air had cleared Enjolras felt someone climb up beside him.

“Enjolras?”

He turned to see Renaud, his sharp eyes clouded with confusion.

“I cannot stay here,” Enjolras said instantly, balling his hands into fists, “Forgive me, but I cannot.”

“What are you talking about?” Renaud hissed, “You are needed here!”

“No, I...” Enjolras shook his head, “I must return home.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“I have a family.” Enjolras reminded him, “I cannot abandon them. If I die, they will grieve. They have already suffered enough; I will have no part in inflicting further pain upon them.”

“You are giving up on our cause?” Renaud accused. 

“No - do not misunderstand me,” Enjolras stated, “I have given my time and money and many of my nights to our cause. I believe in it with all my heart. But I cannot give my life to it – not when there are others depending upon me.”

“Then you are a coward!” Renaud spat, curling his lip, “And a traitor to boot!”

Enjolras held his gaze fiercely, steeling himself against his words.

“Very well,” he said, “Then I am. Call me what you will – I will not throw my life away when my children need me alive and whole.”

They had attracted interest now, many of the other insurgents stopping to watch what was unfolding.

“You are a deserter of our cause,” Renaud said coldly, turning his gun on him,  “We must be seen by the people to be a legitimate military force – if that means executing traitors, then I will not hesitate.”

Enjolras did not flinch.

“Very well,” he said, “Then shoot me.”

Renaud looked as though he might have, had Claudel not appeared suddenly at his side, seizing the barrel of the gun and directing it away from Enjolras.

“You would not dare!” he snarled.

Renaud froze, taken aback, “You defend him?”

“I defend any man's right to leave,” Claudel said, “He has a family, Renaud, or do you forget that? Let him leave. We stain the name of our cause if we go about executing fathers in cold blood.”

Renaud did not seem to share his opinion, but he did not speak it; he lowered his gun, spitting at Enjolras' feet, “Go, then,” he said, “And do not come back else we treat you as an enemy.”

Enjolras fixed him with a cool look as he passed him, “You are an enemy enough to yourself, Renaud,” he said, “You make our cause look like savagery.”

 


	31. Chapter 31

When Enjolras appeared in the doorway, one half of his face blackened by powder and his hands shaking, Combeferre thought for a moment that he was imagining him.

An hour after Enjolras had left on his walk that morning they had gotten wind of the trouble in Paris, immediately concluding that Enjolras must have gone to the barricades to fight.

'You do not think he means to get himself killed?' Courfeyrac had said fearfully; the same terrible thought had crossed Combeferre's mind as well, but he hadn't the courage to say it.

But Enjolras was here, disheveled and smelling of smoke, but alive – _alive._

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, the name rushing out of him like a breath of air, “You are home?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said quietly; he looked down at his hands as though it were his first time seeing them, staring at his fingers as they shook uncontrollably.

“Claudel tried to get me to go to the barricades.”

The bile rose in Combeferre's throat.

“And you went?” he guessed.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “But then I left,”

“Why?”

“I am needed here,” Enjolras said.

“I am glad,” Combeferre said, heart soaring in his chest, “We would not want to be left without you. I confess we feared the worst...”

Enjolras nodded; his eyes moved, settling on a point just behind Combeferre's shoulder.

“Enjolras,”

Combeferre turned to see Grantaire standing at the end of the hallway, eyes wide with such immeasurable disbelief that it was heartbreaking to behold. For all Courfeyrac and Combeferre's efforts Grantaire had been inconsolable when he had heard of the rioting, resigned in an instant to being a widower.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, almost deadpan, “I am back.”

“Yes,” Grantaire agreed mildly, “How was your walk this morning?”

Enjolras managed a faint smile, “Uneventful,” he said.

A fragile, broken sort of sound escaped Grantaire's throat at that; he cast his cane aside and rushed to Enjolras, throwing his arms around him.

“I thought you had left me for good,” he said, burying his face in Enjolras' hair, “I thought that you had gone to throw your life away, and that I might never see you again!”

“No,” Enjolras whispered, clinging to him tightly, so tightly it seemed to Combeferre as though they might meld into one being, “No. I am here. I am home.”

“Good,” Grantaire said, and kissed him hard on the lips, with enough desperate passion that Combeferre felt the need to look away.

As he did he caught sight of Camille at the top of the stairs, his brows knit together as though in confusion.

“Father...?” he said, slowly making his way down the stairs, hand running along the bannister.

“Camille,” Enjolras smiled, “I am home,”

“Yes,” Camille said, “But why?”

“Camille?”

“You did not go to fight?”

“I did,” Enjolras informed him, “But I could not. I cannot take another life, nor risk my own. I am needed here. I must be present for you and your sister, I have a duty---”

“Your duty is to liberty,” Camille cut across him, eyes hardening, “What of that?”

“I can fulfill that duty in other ways,” Enjolras reasoned, taking a step towards him, “I will continue to pen my articles, to voice my opinions. If the rebels are successful and a provisional government is put into place ---”

“You are a coward.” Camille accused, expression darkening.

Enjolras froze, “No,"

“I respected you.”

“Camille---”

“You have taught me that a revolutionary must be intrepid – that he must put aside his personal wants and needs for the greater good!” Camille yelled, retreating from him, “You are a coward and a traitor!”

“I was wrong to teach you what I did!” Enjolras said, “You are only a boy – it was wrong of me to put such thoughts in your head!”

Camille shook his head angrily, whirling around and thundering back up the stairs.

“Camille!”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, finally stepping in, “Let him be,” he urged, patting his shoulder, “He is at a tempestuous age. His fury will pass.”

Enjolras sighed, turning his attention back to Grantaire, “I am sorry for worrying you, my love.”

 

-

 

The day passed peculiarly, Combeferre and Enjolras reading opposite each other in the parlour, listening to the sounds of glass breaking and people shouting. Occasionally they would hear the far off boom of cannons, like thunder in the distance. Neither of them acknowledged it, as though speaking of it might somehow put a curse upon the house.

 

-

 

When it began to grow dark Paris fell suddenly silent. It was not a peaceful silence by any means, but the tense lapse between two breaths, the pregnant pause before a calamity. Combeferre did all in his power to set the thought aside.

As he made his way to Emmeline's bedroom he passed the open door to Marianne's, stopping short when he saw Enjolras sitting on the edge of her bed. He was talking to her as he settled her down to sleep, speaking so softly and lowly that Combeferre could not discern his words.

His movements were still clumsy, still uncertain, but he brushed her hair from her face with tender hands, and kissed her on the forehead. Even from where he stood in the doorway Combeferre could feel the warmth he exuded.

She fell asleep quickly, a contented smile upon her face, and when Combeferre was certain that he would not wake her he ventured into the room.

“You are doing well with her,” he remarked; Enjolras glanced over his shoulder at him, looking almost embarrassed to have been caught.

“I still do not know what I ought to do or say most of the time,” He confessed, pulling the sheets up to Marianne's chin as she slept, “But it is coming to me more easily each time.”

“You will surely learn,” Combeferre reassured him, “She is already happier. She has not taken that locket off all day...”

Enjolras smiled, “I thought she might like it. She will outgrow her gowns and bonnets, but she shall always have that.”

“You are more sentimental than you credit yourself, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, “And I am proud of you for the decision you made today.”

Enjolras did not tear his gaze from Marianne; his jaw twitched.

“I have caused my family enough misery to last a lifetime,” he said, “I could not abide the thought of inflicting more, though I confess myself ashamed that I did not stay and fight.”

“We are glad you are here,” Combeferre said, “Let the young men overthrow the government. If they succeed you will be needed for council and lawmaking when the fighting is over and done. Your part is not over merely because you are not fighting on the barricades.”

“It is hard to reconcile that fact with myself,” Enjolras admitted, “But you are right, I know...” a hazy look came to his eyes, as though he were lost in memories.

“Love is what I have always fought for,” he said, “Love for the people, love for humanity, for freedom and liberty. Love should always be the very heart of revolution. And yet these last years I have been blinded to the love in my own life – I would have even forfeit it, if need be. I have been a terrible fool.”

“You have,” Combeferre agreed bluntly.

Enjolras smirked, “You could have disagreed, to be kind,”

“I could have,” Combeferre said, amused, “But I know you would rather my honesty.”

“I would. I swear to you, Combeferre,” Enjolras murmured, “I will never again forget that it is love that rules me.”

“If you ever do I will remind you,”

“Thank you.”

He stood, pressing another kiss to Marianne's brow.

“Come, then – we ought to leave her to sleep---”

“Enjolras!”

Combeferre spun around at the sound of Grantaire's voice, seeing him stood in the doorway, eyes wide. Agony was etched into his features, and all the colour had gone from his cheeks.

“What is wrong?” Combeferre said.

“Camille is gone!”

“Gone?” Enjolras echoed, leaping to his feet, “What do you mean?!”

“I cannot find him anywhere!” Grantaire said, “And your study, Enjolras, I – your pistol is missing from it's box!”

The sound that left Enjolras was heart-wrenching; it was like something had reached into him and pulled the sound of his grief out of him, tearing it from his lips with brutal force. Marianne woke at the commotion, starling in her bed.

“No!” Enjolras wailed, “No!”

Combeferre ran to his side to hold him, to stop him sliding to his knees in despair.

There was only one place that Camille could be.

“He has gone to the barricades,” Enjolras said, voicing it for him, “My god...this is my fault! I have fostered this in him, I have done this...”

“It will not help to blame yourself,” Combeferre said, gripping him tightly, “Enjolras, please – pull yourself together. We must find him before he gets himself killed.”

“Yes. I have to go and retrieve him,” he said, shaking Combeferre off and rushing out of the room past Grantaire.

“I will go with you,” Grantaire decided, struggling to keep up with him.

“No you won't,” Combeferre said, blocking his path, “You cannot – your pains will not allow it. Stay here and comfort Marianne.”

Grantaire stopped, affronted, “But I have to bring my son home,” he said, “I cannot let him die, Combeferre, and I will not leave Enjolras to go alone---”

“I know,” Combeferre said, placing one hand on his shoulder, “Which is why I shall go with him.”

“But---”

“You once told me that you knew you could rely on me to keep your family safe,” Combeferre reminded him, “Grantaire, please trust in me – I promise you that if you let me go in your stead I will bring your son home.”

He meant it - with every fibre of his being he meant it.

He had been responsible for what had happened to François; Camille would not follow his brother into that mausoleum so soon – not while Combeferre still drew breath.

Their eyes met for a moment, and Combeferre saw the uncertainty in Grantaire's face, the anguish, the love.

“Very well,” he said, “I trust you, Combeferre. Please – please do not let my boy die, I could not go through it again...”

“I will give my life for his if necessary,” Combeferre vowed, “I swear that to you.”

Grantaire nodded, embracing him tightly.

“Quickly,” Enjolras said, pulling on his coat, “We have to hurry – we cannot waste even a moment.”

Combeferre pulled free, squeezing Grantaire firmly by the shoulders, “We'll bring him back,” he said again, before following Enjolras out into the darkened streets.

 

-

 

The barricade on Rue Saint Antoine was still standing strong when they got there; it was the closest blockade to the house, and so they had begun their search there.

It did not prove difficult to find Camille; asking a few of the young men on the barricade directed them to the boy, sitting hidden among the wreckage and hugging himself against the February chill.

There was a carbine resting beside him, far too heavy and cumbersome for a child to be wielding. The pistol he had stolen from Enjolras' study was tucked into a sash around his waist.

“Camille!” Enjolras shouted.

Camille raised his eyes when he heard his name called.

"Father?" he said, the thoughtful, pensive furrow of his brow deepening in anger.

“Camille,” Enjolras breathed, “You must come home at once!”

“No!” Camille snapped, grabbing the carbine and rising to his feet as though to make a point; when he was stood the gun was nearly the length of him.

“I am needed here! I am a revolutionary now. It is what you wanted for me!”

“I was a fool,” Enjolras protested, “Come away from here!”

“I will not!"

“You are just a boy!” Combeferre scolded, “You ought not be here - for heaven's sake you do not even know how to reload your gun!”

“Yes I do,” Camille said defensively, bristling at the statement, “One of them men taught me how to load and aim!”

“Who?” Enjolras demanded.

Camille gave a barely perceivable gesture, the slightest nod in the direction of the barricade, and Enjolras followed his gaze.

“You!” he snarled.

Renaud turned to face them, looking loftily down upon Enjolras from where he stood at the top of the barricade. Combeferre felt his stomach sink.

“I warned you what would happen if you returned,” Renaud said; his eyes went to Combeferre, narrowing in confusion.

“Combeferre,” he said, “Are you here to join our ranks?”

“I am here with Enjolras to bring his son home.” Combeferre informed him curtly.

“Camille wishes to stay and fight with us,” Renaud said, not a trace of guilt behind his eyes, “He is one of us now.”

“He is a _child!_ ” Enjolras hissed, “Not yet fifteen!”

“And he is bolder than most of the men here,” Renaud said, “We need people like him on the barricades,” his lip curled into a sneer, “At least the son, if not the father, is loyal to something.”

What happened next happened swiftly, passing in such a blur that Combeferre scarcely had the chance to register what was happening; Enjolras wrenched the carbine from Camille's hands, swinging the butt of the gun around to strike Renaud across the face.

There was a loud crack and Renaud slid down onto the debris with a howl of pain, blood streaming from a nose that was shattered beyond recognition.

Camille gasped; Combeferre seized him by the sleeve to anchor him to the spot.

They watched as Enjolras climbed up to loom over Renaud, turning the gun to point the nose beneath his chin.

He was terrible once more, chilling the very air around him – a vengeful god towering before a frightened mortal. Transformed, in that instant, back into the man he had once been, radiant and awful and commanding respect. Combeferre felt his heart lift. 

“He is a child,” He repeated calmly, pressing the tip of the gun into his throat, “And damn me for taking so long to remember it. I pray that your nose will help you come to that conclusion with more haste than I did.”

Renaud swallowed hard, licking at the blood that was pouring over his lips, “Will you kill me?” he croaked.

“I ought to. You have shamed our cause and endangered my son's life in letting him be here.”

“Go on, then,” Renaud closed his eyes, clenching his jaw as he waited for the shot that would end his life. 

“Do not be a fool,” Enjolras growled, lip turned disdainfully, “You are not worth my guilty conscience.”

He discharged the carbine above Renaud's head and threw it aside, holding eye contact the whole time.

“We are going home, Camille,” he said.

Combeferre saw Camille stare at him with a strange sort of awe, as though a sudden revelation had come to him. He opened his mouth to respond, but as he did there came a frantic shout from the top of the barricade;

“GET DOWN!”

The warning had not even ended when there was a sound like the ground tearing open; a thunderous rumble, the boom of a cannon and then a blast of shattered wood and steel as grapeshot pelted the barricade; Combeferre acted instinctively, grabbing Camille by the scruff of his shirt as one might a kitten and throwing him down, shielding him with his body. He felt shrapnel cut across his shoulders, tearing his coat.

A beat of silence followed the explosion, a high pitched ringing in his ears, and then suddenly his hearing came rushing back, bringing with it the screams and cries of those who had not managed to dodge the blow. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out, trying not to see the faces of their friends in his head, to not see Joly, to not see Bossuet, to not see Feuilly.

He finally forced himself to open his eyes, looking down at Camille, stiff and terrified beneath him; the child seemed utterly incapacitated by shock, his blue eyes wide and his mouth hanging open – the fear in his face only further pronounced his youth, only made it more apparent than ever that he should never have been there. There was a scratch across his cheek where a shard of glass had struck him.

“Camille,” He said, shaking the boy back to his senses, “Camille, we have to leave!”

He looked around for Enjolras, seeing him stumbling down from where he'd been standing over Renaud, huddled in his coat.

“Come on,” He said, “We need to get out of here before they fire again,”

Combeferre nodded, having to lift Camille to his feet by his shirt.

“Let's go.”

The boy went without a fight.

He had evidently had his fill of war.

 

-

 

“I am sorry,” Camille whispered when they were halfway home, breaking the tense silence. He was more coherent now, but still quaking so violently on Combeferre's arm that it made his voice shake.

“I should not have – I didn't think it would be – I – I'm sorry...”

“It's alright,” Combeferre said gently, “You have learned your lesson, that is enough. Do you see now that there is no glory in battle? Revolution is necessary – I will not disagree – but necessity and heroism are many worlds apart.”

“I just wanted to be like my father,” Camille said, wincing.

“Camille...” Combeferre sighed, “You need not fight on a barricade for that. You are already very much like him – to the point of frustration, I might add.”

Camille gripped him tightly, digging his nails into Combeferre's arm, “It was horrible,” he said, “How did you cope?”

“We didn't,” Combeferre said bluntly, “I doubt anybody ever does.”

He cast a glance in Enjolras' direction as he said this, noticing that he had fallen unusually quiet beside them.

“Enjolras,” he said, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “I am fine.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Of course I am,” Enjolras muttered, though his lips had turned strangely pale.

“Enjolras...?”

“I am fine---”

He stopped suddenly, hands still balled up in his coat, and drew a sharp breath.

Immediately Combeferre knew that something was wrong; he made it to his side just as Enjolras' legs gave out from under him, catching him in his arms before he hit the ground.

“Father?!” Camille said, voice rising with panic, “Father, what's wrong?!”

Combeferre pried Enjolras' fingers from his coat, peeling it back to examine him.

The moment he saw the extent of his injuries he felt his blood run cold.

There was a shard of wood lodged in his left side, thick enough to have once been the leg of a chair or small table. He did not know how long it was, nor how deep, but for it to have pierced both his waistcoat and the fabric of his shirt it must have hit him with extraordinary force. A dark stain had begun to spread across his waistcoat, almost unnoticeable against the black of the fabric, and when Combeferre looked at his fingers he found them red with blood.

“Enjolras,” he said, aghast, “Why did you not say?”

“I did not want to worry you,” Enjolras said, his eyes closed and his voice almost unintelligible, “It is only a splinter, after all.”

 


	32. Chapter 32

When Enjolras woke he was laying in his bed, staring up at the canopy and the way the candlelight gilded the folds in the fabric. He could not see any light coming in from the shutters - a sign that it was still night, or else the early hours of the morning. His limbs felt heavy, his head was spinning - what had happened? 

There was shouting in the streets outside, the sound of a glass bottle shattering, and with that the events of the evening came rushing back to him all at once. 

Camille. A barricade. Camille. A flash of blinding light, a shower of debris. _Camille..._

Where was he?

As this thought came to him a voice suddenly spoke from the other side of the room, hushed and agitated.

“What are you saying?”

Enjolras strained his ears, picking it out as Courfeyrac's and wondering who he was talking to.

“The splinter is long,” Combeferre, “If I remove it he will bleed out within minutes.”

“And so leave it in!”

“If I do that it will become infected.”

Enjolras frowned, trying to make sense of his words.

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said, “I do not understand...?”

“There is nothing more that I can do for him.”

A long pause followed his words, so long that Enjolras wondered if he had lost his hearing, and then Courfeyrac spoke again.

“He is going to die?”

He understood that, at least.

Enjolras thought perhaps the revelation warranted more emotion on his part; was it not the usual thing for one to beg and plead for more time? To bargain, to barter, or else to rage, to rage, rage, rage and fight against the embrace of death?

It was odd – no such urge came to him, a great peace settling over him like a blanket instead.

“How long does he have?” Courfeyrac said, breaking into his thoughts, “Combeferre, how long----”

“A few days perhaps, if I do not remove the shrapnel. Certainly no more than a week. His wounds are extensive, and I...I cannot...” Combeferre's voice began to falter, something finally seeming to slip from his grasp. The doctor in him spoke like a pragmatist, but the friend in him – the brother – could hold himself together no longer.

“I should have noticed it – I ought have----”

“You were busy shielding Camille!” Courfeyrac said weakly, “Please, my love – what more time would it have bought?”

“I – I do not know, but...”

Hearing his distress Enjolras finally mustered up the strength to speak, his voice hurting his throat as it crawled it's way up. 

“Combeferre,” he whispered, “Combeferre...?”

There was a pause, a moment of shocked silence, and then the shadows in the room shifted and Combeferre and Courfeyrac appeared at his side, looming over him. 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, grappling for his hand, “Enjolras, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Enjolras confirmed, “Camille – how is Camille?”

“He is fine,”

“Truly?”

“Yes. Shaken, but safe. He shall have a small scar upon his cheek, but little else. He is well, Enjolras, I promise you.”

Enjolras felt his lips twitch into a smile, “Thank god,” he said, “Thank you for looking out for him.”

“It is the least I can do,” Combeferre said, kissing his knuckles; he could see the tears in his eyes, shining behind the lenses of his spectacles. He took a deep breath and clasped his free hand over his so that he was holding him with both hands.

“Enjolras,” he started, “I...I am afraid that....that...”

“That I am to die,” Enjolras finished, to make the matter easier on him.

“It is alright. I know.”

“You do?”

“I heard you speaking.”

“Oh god,” Courfeyrac said, bringing his hands to his mouth, “I am sorry, I---”

“It is fine,” Enjolras assured him softly, “I am fine.”

“You are not fine,” Courfeyrac argued, tears rolling down his face, “You are not! What are we to do without you?”

“You will manage, I am sure,” Enjolras rasped, grimacing as the pain began to make it's presence known. He had not felt it at first – not even at the moment of impact.

He had been blown off his feet by the grapeshot and when he had stood again he'd found a shard of wood embedded in his side.

He had not even felt it, as impossible as that now seemed. 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said gently, “The shock is wearing off. I can get you some laudanum----”

“No,” Enjolras refused, “No, I do not want to be delirious – not now. I have too much I need do before I take my leave.”

“But Enjolras...”

“It does not hurt so badly,” Enjolras said, desperate not to cause Combeferre further concern, “Truly. It is nothing! You forget that I have given birth four times. Next to that this feels little more than a pinprick---” he broke off, gritting his teeth as the pain throbbed through him, “Though I do confess it a particularly large pin.”

“Do not touch it,” Combeferre urged, “You will bleed out if it is removed.”

“I am sure I'll grow used to it, then,” Enjolras said, a feeble attempt at a joke, “Where is Camille?”

“He is with Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said, “It is a funny thing, Enjolras, you would be most pleased – they forgot all the distance between them in an instant!”

Enjolras let out a ragged laugh, “At least this is good for something, then.”

Courfeyrac laughed too, but it was broken, catching in his throat; he looked down and the laughter turned to tears.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said, “I am sorry...”

“You are sorry?” Courfeyrac exclaimed, “You are the one dying and yet you say 'sorry'! Enjolras, if I could take your place----”

“I would not allow it,” Enjolras told him, “Emmeline needs you.”

Courfeyrac sucked in a breath, “Emmeline...”

“Tell her the truth, when she is old enough for it,” Enjolras begged, the words struggling past his lips, “Tell her that I love her, and that I thought this for the best. I do – I do love her. She is my dear niece.”

“I will tell her,” Courfeyrac vowed, “I promise you she will know.”

Enjolras felt as though a great weight had just been lifted from his chest; he let out a shuddering sigh, closing his eyes, “Camille,” he said, “Please bring Camille to me.”

“I will get him,” Courfeyrac said, “Combeferre will stay with you.”

 

-

 

“Does Grantaire know?” Enjolras asked when Courfeyrac had left the room. Combeferre was quiet for a moment.

“No,” he said, “I did not know how to tell him.”

“That is just as well,” Enjolras decided, blinking up at the canopy, “I will tell him myself.”

He heard cheering outside, and with it the sound of distant music drawing slowly nearer.

“What is happening out there?” he asked, turning his head on the pillow to listen. He watched Combeferre make his way over to the window, cracking open one of the shutters to look down into the streets, bustling despite the hour.

“They are saying that the king has abdicated,” Combeferre announced, eyebrows raised in surprise. 

Enjolras felt a spark of hope ignite in his chest; “He has?”

“It appears so.”

Enjolras smiled in spite of everything, “I am glad I hung on long enough to hear that.”

He felt the mattress dip beneath Combeferre's weight as he sat down beside him again; a warm hand brushed his own, hooking their fingers together.

“Our friends are smiling down on us, Enjolras,” he said.

“Well I will be with them soon enough,” Enjolras said, “I will be happy to see them.”

“But we will miss you here,” Combeferre murmured, leaning forward to kiss his forehead, “ _I_ will miss you here.”

“I know. Will you watch over my children, Combeferre?” Enjolras asked, “And Grantaire, too – he will need help...”

“I will do everything within my power,” Combeferre said fiercely.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, “I am glad you are here, Combeferre. I feel in some way you were always meant to be with me when I died. Fate spared us both in 1832, and brought us together again years later. I am so glad for it, in truth. I feel we were given a second chance to get things right.”

“I will be here until the end, Enjolras,” Combeferre said earnestly, “I always will.”

 

-

 

Enjolras was still listening to the celebrations outside when Courfeyrac returned with Camille, ushering him over to the bed.

There were two small sutures in the boy's cheek where he had been cut by debris, and the smell of black powder still clung to his clothes, but beyond this there was no evidence at all the had had been on the barricades that night.

If only it were so simple, Enjolras thought; he knew from experience that the scars of battle went much deeper. And now, well - now he would not be around to help Camille to heal from them. 

Camille looked upon him with horror as he drew nearer, all the blood draining from his cheeks. 

“Father,” he said, perching on the edge of the bed, “I am sorry...”

“Do not be,” Enjolras said immediately, “This is not your fault.”

“If I had not gone...” Camille looked down, “If I had not gone you would not have been there.”

“This is my doing, Camille,” Enjolras whispered, “I put these thoughts in your head. I believed so fiercely in the future that I wanted to build for you that I was willing to risk your life in the process. There is nothing in this world that should be worth that.”

Camille glanced up at him, his expression haunted with regret. His eyes were red, shadows lurking beneath them that ill fit his striking youth.

"I forgive you," he said, and the words nearly brought him to tears.

"Thank you,” Enjolras said, “And do not blame yourself for what happened today. Please. Promise me that you will try not to.”

“I promise, father,”

“Good. And take care of your sister,” Enjolras added, “I have not been good to her, and now it seems I will not be around to amend that.”

Camille nodded, “I will,” he swore, “You needn't worry about her. I won't let anything happen to her.”

“There's a good lad,” Enjolras smiled. He gathered him into his arms as best he could, holding him close and pressing his nose into his hair - his hair that was so like Grantaire's.

“I love you so much,” he said, breathing in his scent, committing it to memory, “I have loved you from the moment I first held you.”

“I know papa,” Camille whimpered, voice muffled against him, “I love you too.”

He pulled away, eyes glistening, “Marianne,” he said, voice choked, “Would you like me to bring her to you?”

“Where is she?”

“Sleeping.”

Enjolras' heart ached with longing. Of course he wanted to see her - he wanted to hold her, to kiss her goodbye and tell her how he loved her so. But he couldn't.

For once it was not born of his own uncertainty, his own ungainliness with matters of the heart - no, it was to spare her.

She was barely seven, how could she even begin to comprehend watching her father in the grips of death, shivering and pale in his bed? After the years of neglect he did not wish that to be the last memory she had of him - better she recall him tucking her into bed, wishing her pleasant dreams and kissing her goodnight. Goodnight was far sweeter than goodbye. 

“No,” he said, having to force the word out, “Let her go on sleeping. But tell her, when she wakes, that I love her – and that I am sorry. I have not been a good father. Go now and get some rest,” he insisted, “Leave, so that you may remember me as I am now, before it gets too awful...”

Camille wiped his eyes, sniffling loudly; so often he fancied himself already a man, but he was a boy again now, scared and vulnerable.

“Goodnight, papa,” he said; he had not called him 'papa' for years, having adopted the more formal 'father' at only ten years old. It warmed Enjolras' chest to hear it again now.

“Goodnight Camille,” he said, as Courfeyrac led him away.

He waited until the door had closed softly in their wake before he turned to Combeferre again, “Will you send Grantaire to me, and leave us a while?”

“Of course,” Combeferre said; he squeezed his hand, eyes indescribably gentle, “Are you sure you will not take some laudanum for the pain?”

“I am sure,” Enjolras said, “I want to have a clear head for this.”

“Very well.”

 

-

 

When Grantaire called upon him it became clear that he had been weeping. He looked exhausted as he made his way over to him, his eyes seeming heavy and sore as though he had spent all the tears he had in him. 

“Enjolras...” he croaked, setting his cane down against the nightstand, “How are you, my love?”

“I have felt better, in truth,” Enjolras said, “Come lie with me,” he begged, pawing feebly at the empty space beside him.

“Of course,”

Enjolras closed his eyes, feeling a rush of peace as Grantaire slipped beneath the sheets and settled against him, his hands trembling, holding him delicately.

“You need not break it to me carefully,” Grantaire said after a while, his face so close that Enjolras could feel his breath tickling his cheek.

His heart sank.

“You have been told?”

“No, but I have guessed,” Grantaire said, “Why else should you call us to you one at a time but to say our farewells?”

“I am sorry,” Enjolras said quietly, “Truly. I do not want to leave you.”

“I do not want you to leave me either. What am I to do without you? What will even become of me?”

“You must go on,” Enjolras pleaded, “For our children, you must. Please. Promise me, Grantaire...”

“I promise you,” Grantaire said, his voice firm despite that he was shaking, “I am not the same man I was in 1832. None of us are. I will survive, Enjolras, I swear to you. I will grieve and suffer and miss you for the rest of my days, but I will survive. Camille and Marianne need me, and I could not abandon them.”

“Good,” Enjolras said, “You must love them enough for the both of us, in my absence.”

“Always. They are the best part of my life.” Grantaire swallowed hard, averting his gaze, “Are you in any pain?”

“Very little. I am not scared,” Enjolras assured him, “I am going to see François and our friends,”

Grantaire smiled sadly, “Well, when you see Joly do tell him he still owes me money from a game of dominoes in 1830,”

A weak laugh burst from Enjolras' chest, “I will,” he said, resting his head against his shoulder, “And when you join me – many, many years from now – I shall be waiting for you with your winnings.”

“Good. Give him hell for me,”

“I shall.”

Enjolras studied him for a while, making a map of his features. He still resembled the man he had snubbed in Cafe Musain all those years ago, and yet, at the same time, he did not resemble him at all. He had never noticed back then how kind his eyes were, how they resembled the colour of honey in the candlelight. He had creases at the corners of them now, and his coal dark curls were starting to grey in places, his sideburns now frosted with streaks of silver. Sometimes it was easy to forget just how much time had passed.

“Thank you, Grantaire,” he said.

“For what?”

“For the years,” Enjolras explained, “For being my companion through it all. For staying by my side, for giving me such beautiful children. It has been wonderful. I am only sorry that I will not get to grow old with you.”

Grantaire let out a pained sound, pressing his forehead to his, “We have had many more years than I expected - for I expected none at all,” he said, “Sharing my life with you has been more than I ever dared dream.”

Enjolras brought his hand up to touch his face, feeling the familiar roughness of his stubble beneath his palm, “It has been more than I deserved. I have been blessed with a most brilliant husband.”

A shiver ran through him then, another jolt of pain seizing his body unexpectedly. 

“Does it hurt?” Grantaire asked worriedly, noticing the way he shuddered.

“A little more than I first said, I confess,” Enjolras said, pushing the sheets back to look at the shard of wood. Combeferre had bandaged around it, but the attempt had done very little – he had scarcely dared touch it for fear he might dislodge it.

“Combeferre says that to leave it in will buy me a few more days before infection creeps in,” he said, as Grantaire stared at it in horror, “He says that to remove it would see me bleed out within minutes.”

“Then be careful with it,” Grantaire urged, moving to pull Enjolras' hand away, “Please---”

“No,” Enjolras said, his heart starting to race, “No, Grantaire. I do not want to linger...”

Grantaire stared at him, eyes clouding with confusion, “What do you mean?”

“I would rather die with dignity,” Enjolras whispered; a look passed between them, and understanding began to creep into Grantaire's face.

His lips parted as though to speak, but no words left him.

"Enjolras..."

“I do not want to waste away in pain for days,” Enjolras said, “I do not want our children to see me this way.”

“This is why you asked to see me last...” Grantaire guessed.

“I know I haven't the right to ask your help in this matter,” Enjolras said, “Not after all I have put you through. But I should like to have you here, holding me. I am not afraid, Grantaire...”

Grantaire dropped his gaze, swallowing so hard that Enjolras saw his throat move with the effort.

“You are certain?”

“Very.”

Grantaire gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Do you permit it?”

Enjolras pressed his lips to his, as chastely and softly as though they were courting.

“Yes,” he said.

He felt a sharp tug, a shock of searing pain, and then – nothing.

He looked down to see the shard of wood in Grantaire's hand, far longer than he had imagined it.

“Oh,” he said, almost dreamily, “That feels much better. Hold me, please...”

Grantaire threw the splinter aside, pulling him against his chest; Enjolras could feel their hearts beating frantically together. He gripped his shirt until his knuckles turned white, letting the last few jolts of pain quiver through him.

“I love you,” he said, his eyelids growing heavy.

“I love you too,” Grantaire said, voice strangled as he clung to him, “I will always love you.”

Enjolras smiled, closing his eyes. There was no pain now, only a comfortable warmth spreading through his body, making it's way from the tips of his fingers down to his toes. This was a good death, he knew. Camille and Marianne were safe. The revolution had succeeded. Combeferre and Courfeyrac would care for his family. Grantaire would find a way to go on, Grantaire was here, Grantaire was holding him in his arms...

Yes, he thought, as darkness swallowed him up.

This was a very good death.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before people are upset - originally he WAS going to have a bit saying goodbye to Marianne, but it didn't feel right. She's a little girl - she shouldn't see her father dying in a pretty grizzly way, and Enjolras wouldn't want to do that to her after everything else. She gets to have a happy last memory of Enjolras, this way, and a bit less trauma.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter from Combeferre's POV to tie up loose ends - and now onto the epilogue!

The sun was starting to rise outside when Combeferre ventured back into the bedroom, breaking over the rooftops and spires of Paris, bathing the city in her heavenly light.

He found Grantaire in the bed, cradling Enjolras to his chest, and the scene had been so peaceful that for a moment he had thought him merely sleeping.

But there was blood on the sheets and no colour in his cheeks, and when Grantaire had looked up to meet Combeferre's gaze the truth of it had become immediately clear.

“He asked me to,” He said when Combeferre picked up the shard of wood from the floor, “He asked me to and I could not refuse him.”

Combeferre understood completely – only wished that Enjolras had made his intentions known. He would not have taken the choice out of his hands.

Knowing that he had died in Grantaire's arms softened the blow. 

“You were right to do it,” he reassured Grantaire, laying one hand gently on his shoulder, “You did what was best.”

 

-

 

Combeferre saw to Enjolras' body himself.

It was a necessary evil – something that had to be done. With a doctor present there would be no scrutiny, no need for investigation. It was best that way; if another doctor had examined his body he would have surely discovered the unusual matter of Enjolras' birth, and to bury Enjolras as a woman would have been like killing him again.

And so it was that Combeferre took the grim duty upon himself; he stitched up the wound in his side, ensured his chest was bound, wiped black powder from his face and washed his golden curls until they shone like sunlight over a wheat field once again.  In a way it was closure - the closure he had longed for in 1832. To touch his skin and find it cold, to observe the way his lips had turned blue - it was finality, and in a macabre way Combeferre was grateful for it. 

Enjolras had risen from the grave once before; this time Combeferre knew he would not be coming back.

He took a lock of his hair for Grantaire, tying it with ribbon, certain that he would want to keep it.

 

-

 

Grantaire had mourned deeply and passionately in the days following Enjolras' death. He had confined himself to their bedroom, refusing food and taking no solace from anyone or anything. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had begun to fear the worst, but on the third day he had emerged, dressed and clean-shaven and remarkably composed.

He had thanked Combeferre in earnest for his services as doctor, and then immediately made a duty of organising any affairs that Enjolras had left unfinished.

“My children and I will be remaining in Paris,” he said calmly, “Though I am from Auvergne and Enjolras from Limoges he was as Parisian as they come, and it is only right that his children should remain here.”

 

-

 

Enjolras was interred in the mausoleum at Montmartre with François, one of the books Grantaire had gifted him years ago folded against his chest and curls of Camille and Marianne's hair pressed within it's pages.

He was laid to rest in his red waistcoat, something that had been Courfeyrac's idea; 'it feels wrong to bury him in his mourning clothes,' he had said, and they had all been in agreement.

The day of his funeral was the first day of the year that the February frost begun to wane, the first shoots of new plant life finally beginning to emerge from beneath it. It felt fitting to Combeferre - spring sweeping across Paris as a new provisional government was taking it's first shaky steps around them. It felt right.

“One day I will join him in there,” Grantaire said quietly at his side, staring at the mausoleum, “But not for many years. Not until my children have children of their own.”

“He would be proud of you,” Combeferre said, "You are being strong for them. _I_ am proud of you." 

Grantaire hooked his arm in his, “I confess I did not expect us to become friends,” he said, “Not after you hit me that time.”

“I confess I did not much like you to begin with,” Combeferre admitted, shooting him a sidelong glance, “But you are not so bad.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” Combeferre smiled, “I think Enjolras would be pleased to see us now.”

“I know he would. Smug bastard.”

Combeferre managed a small laugh, shaking his head.

Yes, he thought - it was right.

It was as it should be.

 

 


	34. Epilogue: 13 years later.

 

**13 years later**

 

 

“Brother, come on!”

Camille sighed, allowing himself to be led along by the wrist; resistance was utterly futile.

“I do not see why you are in such a rush,” he complained, “Father and François are hardly going anywhere.”

“Do not be so morbid,” Marianne scoffed, finally relinquishing her hold on him to retrieve her fan from where she had tucked it rather crudely into her bodice, “I merely do not want to stall. I do have other places to be today, you know?”

“I am sure you do,” Camille said drolly, raising one eyebrow, “What is his name?”

“None of your business!” Marianne said, swatting him viciously with her fan.

“Forgive me,” Camille said, feigning remorse, “Tell me, what is _her_ name?”

“Camille, do not tease!”

“I am not teasing! I am only curious, sweet sister,” Camille said, a foxish grin spreading across his face, “Maybe you will finally settle down and find yourself married like dear Emmeline!”

“I certainly hope not!” Marianne said, wrinkling her nose in disdain, “Married! Urgh! She is a fool. Emmeline was always too proper about everything.”

“She is happy,”

“And a dolt.”

Camille chuckled, “If you say so,” he said, “Come along, then. And watch your steps, the cobbles here are uneven and I will not catch you if you slip.”

“Such a darling brother you are,” Marianne said with a dreamy sigh, latching onto his arm again, “It is fine weather, at least.”

“Summer is in full swing,” Camille agreed as they strolled through Montmartre. The cemetery had a strange peace about it – it seemed to exist separately from the rest of Paris. The city was oft noisy and vulgar, yet Montmartre remained at all times silent and serene. To step through the gates under Rue Caulaincourt was to step into another world.

“Do you think the flowers are alright?” Marianne asked suddenly, an air of embarrassment about her as she clutched the bouquet of blue flowers to her chest.

“They are flowers,” Camille pointed out, a little lost, “How could they not be?”

“I wanted to get something father would like,” Marianne said.

“He was never one for flowers or other fancies. I doubt it would have made any matter to him, Marianne,” Camille told her, “The thought is surely enough.”

Marianne huffed, “They are hyacinths," she said, "Do you know the significance of hyacinths?”

“Not at all.”

“Of course not, because you are an impossible philistine,” Marianne snorted, “You are as dull as an old man already!”

“Are you to tell me their significance or not?” Camille asked.

“Well, they are supposedly named for a young man the god Apollo was in love with,” Marianne said, “And they symbolise sincerity – the blue ones, anyway. I thought it fitting for father,” she shrugged, “So rarely is love like his and papa's celebrated.”

Camille had to smile at that, “They are lovely flowers,” he said.

As they wandered the tightly woven paths through the graves another living soul appeared before them, flitting out from behind a tomb like a ghost and catching them off guard.

The girl had long golden curls, crowned by a fine hat, and a doe-eyed gaze half concealed by a lace parasol. She was the most beautiful creature Camille had ever seen – so beautiful that he stopped in his tracks, feeling the breath rush out of him. His feet had become too clumsy to take another step. She practically glowed from head to toe, well-dressed and radiating all the warmth of the sun. 

“Brother?” Marianne looked up at him, face scrunched up in confusion, “Are you alright?”

“Camille? Is that you?”

Camille looked back at the mystery girl, surprised that she knew his name. A thrill of panic took hold of him - had he met her before and scorned her in some way? He scoured his memory for her face, struck by a sudden sense of familiarity.

“Marie?” he said, suddenly recognising her.

“You do remember me, then?” she laughed.

“Yes, I – yes, of course, forgive me,” Camille said, giving her a polite bow, “It is lovely to see you. It has been some time...”

“Yes,” Marie nodded, “I was a gangly, freckled little girl last time we met.”

“And I was at least a foot shorter,” Camille grinned. 

“It is good to see you,” Marie said, turning her attention to Marianne, “And Marianne,” she said, “You look well – your dress is very beautiful.”

“Do tell my brother that, won't you?” Marianne said, fanning herself aggressively, “He acts as though ashamed to be seen with me!”

“That is because of your behaviour, not your fashion sense,” Camille remarked, ducking as she went to swat him with her fan again.

“You brute!” she accused, releasing him with an audible huff, “I will go ahead to see father and François without you, then. Feel free to join me when you are done being an insufferable flirt.”

“Marianne!” Camille hissed, feeling his cheeks grow hot; she stormed off through the cemetery without so much as a backwards glance, hitching her skirts up gracelessly to avoid tripping.

“She is the same as I remember,” Marie said, watching her go.

“I am sorry,” Camille apologised, certain that he was now red to the very tips of his ears, “She forgets herself, I swear.”

“I think she is funny,” Marie giggled, turning to look at him again; her eyes were mesmerizing, the colour of emeralds. Immediately Camille found himself hopelessly lost in them.

“So, ah,” He ran one hand nervously though his hair, sure that he was making quite the fool of himself, “Would you like to take a walk with me, perhaps? Maybe not now, I – I would not like to impose, I am sure you are here to visit someone – I – you know, nevermind---”

“I would love to,” Marie beamed, “But you would have to ask my father...”

“Of course!” Camille said, voice rising, “Of course, certainly, I...may I call upon your household to speak with him one afternoon?”

“There is no need - he is right here,” Marie said, turning to wave her parasol like a flag, “Papa! Papa, come here!”

Camille felt his heart leap up into his throat as the tall, lanky figure of Monsieur Pontmercy game loping towards them from among the graves.

“Papa, Camille here would like me to walk with him sometime,” Marie said, kissing Marius sweetly on the cheek, “I told him that nothing would please me more, but that he ought to ask you...”

“Camille?” Marius said, raising his eyebrows, “How nice it is to see you!"

“And you, Monsieur,” Camille said, bowing again, “I, uh, trust you are well?” he felt a fool for saying such things when they were stood in a cemetery – certainly no one could truly be _well_ in a cemetery.

“Yes,” Marius said, “We are here to visit my grandfather...”

“I am visiting my father and brother,” Camille said, “My sister has gone ahead without me – she is...spirited, like that.”

“Yes, I recall so,” Marius smiled awkwardly, “How is Grantaire----uh, your father,” he corrected, looking somewhat perturbed, “Courfeyrac did explain the matter with Enjolras to me quite a few times. Forgive me, I am still unsure of it all..."

“It is quite alright. My family was an unorthodox one." 

“Yes, well - in truth I was more scandalized by the knowledge that Enjolras and Grantaire were intimately involved than I was to learn of Enjolras'....situation.” Marius confessed, rambling slightly, “But they were both good men, and you take after them both...”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Camille said, wishing he could disappear into the ground; this was hardly a conversation he wanted to be having in front of Marie.

“I see your uncles often,” Marius went on, apparently not knowing when to take a hint, “I ought to call upon Grantaire more...”

“I am sure that he would like that, Monsieur. He is well, by the way,” Camille told him, “He comes here with us most times, but today his pains were bothering him and so he sent us along without him. A charming widow from Rue De Charenton has taken quite a fancy to him of late – we have been urging him to take her up on the offer, but he is very hesitant.”

The uncertainty of Marius' expression faded to understanding.

“Ah,” he said, “Well, that makes sense. He likely thinks it would be a betrayal...”

“He is a fool,” Camille said shortly, “If he has the chance at finding happiness again he ought to take it - and she is very beautiful.”

“Well I hope he follows your advice, in that case,” Marius said, glancing at Marie again, “As for my daughter...”

Camille felt his stomach twist into a knot.

“I am happy to allow you to court her, providing your intentions are honest – but then, seeing as you are Enjolras' son, I doubt you capable of anything else.”

Camille almost wanted to laugh. He thought it a fortunate thing that Marius was not privy to the gossip and whispers in wineshops and bistros. If he had been, well - Camille doubted he would be permitted to even look upon Marie again, let alone court her.

“I am also Grantaire's son,” he reminded him, cursing himself immediately for the words. Was he determined to ruin his chances?

“Well, he was honest enough, I suppose,” Marius said generously, “I trust you, Camille.”

Camille gave a great sigh of relief, beaming at Marie; she had covered her face coyly with her parasol now, fending off the sun, but from behind the lace he could see the slightest of smiles playing at the corners of her mouth. Her lips were the colour of roses, he thought, and definitely worth kissing – _honestly_ , of course.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, shaking Marius' hand, “I assure you your faith in me will not be misspent.”

“See that it isn't.”

Camille let out a slightly giddy sound, “I--- I ought to go and find my sister now, if you will excuse me. If I leave her alone there is no telling what trouble she will get into.”

“Of course. It was good to see you, Camille. Give your father my best.” Marius said.

“I will, yes, of course,” Camille nodded, reaching to kiss Marie's hand, “I will be sure to call upon you soon, Mademoiselle.”

“Be sure that you do,” Marie said, “I have a dozen other boys who would like to court me if you don't.”

Camille grinned, seeing the mischievous twinkle in her eyes that betrayed that she was not as demure as she would have her father believe.

“Until then,” he said, before taking his leave.

 

-

 

When he caught up to Marianne she was already standing outside the mausoleum; the hyacinths she had brought with her were laid inside on the small stone altar, their petals glowing softly with the light from the window.

The very air around the grave seemed still, as though shrouded by some veil that rendered only it and them real, as though the world itself had in that moment been reduced completely to just he, his sister, and a sombre stone mausoleum.

“You took your time getting here,” Marianne scolded, flashing him a knowing look, “Another conquest?”

“Oh do not say it like that,” Camille muttered, “I was decent.”

“You are a dog and every girl in Paris knows it – some of the gentlemen, too!”

“Not this time,” Camille said, insulted but unable to deny the accusation, “She has left me breathless. I asked her father's permission to court her.”

Marianne did a double take, “ _Court_ her?”

“Yes.”

“You are to court _Marie Pontmercy?_ ” Marianne said, staring at him in disbelief, “Truly? _Her?_ ”

“She is a lovely girl,” Camille argued, “What is wrong with her?”

“Nothing! But she is a _Pontmercy_ ,” Marianne laughed, shaking her head, “Oh, papa will find this _hilarious,_ ”

“Well let him laugh at me then!” Camille said, scowling.

“Don't worry, I will. She's nice enough I suppose, but I confess I am shocked. You haven't seen her in years and then within two minutes you decide she is the one for you!” She smirked, “You are too like him, you know? A hopeless fool for a beautiful blonde.”

“Alright, that's quite enough,” Camille decided, shoving her playfully, “I could go on at length about you and all your callers...”

“You wouldn't dare!”

“I am your brother – of course I would dare.”

“Well don't,” Marianne said, glancing at the mausoleum, “Not in front of father.”

“That is a cheap cop out,” Camille said, following her gaze, “But I suppose you are right that we ought not do this here.”

Marianne sighed, reaching to take his hand, “I miss them,” she said quietly, “I feel I haven't the right – I have so few memories of them both.”

“You can still miss them,” Camille said gently, “They are part of you.”

“But you knew them far longer than I did.”

“And what does it matter? He was your father all the same. François was your brother. Time does not change that." 

All the usual sharpness Marianne possessed seemed to slip away for a moment; she lay her head against his shoulder, a little sigh escaping her lips.

“I suppose,” she said, bringing one hand up to toy with the locket around her neck, “Do you think they would be proud of us?”

“Of course. You are a fearsome woman, Marianne, and I----”

“Write laws to better the lives of the less fortunate,” Marianne said, parroting something he had said to her months ago, “You are right. I know I torment you for it, but you are. Father would be very proud.”

Camille smiled, squeezing her hand.

“I am proud too,” Marianne said after a while, “He was not perfect, but I know he did his best. I know he loved us.” she looked up at him then, staring at him with her blue eyes that were so like his own, that were so like their father's. 

“I am proud to be his daughter.”

 


End file.
